University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


ESTATE  OF  YNEZ  GHIRARDELLI 


i&e  Coffege  Cfaeetce 


THE  AMERICAN 


BY 

HENRY  JAMES 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON     •     NEW  YORK     •     CHICAGO     •     DALLAS 
SAN  FRANCISCO 

Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,  1877,  BY  H.  O.  HOUGHTON  &  CO.  AND  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  i  COb 
COPYRIGHT,  IQO7,  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Vfir  »ibf rsflsr 

CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  S.  A. 


THE   AMERICAN 


i 


ON  a  brilliant  day  in  May,  of  the  year  1868,  a  gentle- 
man was  reclining  at  his  ease  on  the  great  circular 
divan  which  at  that  period  occupied  the  centre  of  the 
Salon  Carre,  in  the  Museum  of  the  Louvre.  This 
commodious  ottoman  has  since  been  removed,  to  the 
extreme  regret  of  all  weak-kneed  lovers  of  the  fine 
arts;  but  our  visitor  had  taken  serene  possession  of  its 
softest  spot,  and,  with  his  head  thrown  back  and  his 
legs  outstretched,  was  staring  at  Murillo's  beautiful 
moon-borne  Madonna  in  deep  enjoyment  of  his  pos- 
ture. He  had  removed  his  hat  and  flung  down  beside 
him  a  little  red  guide-book  and  an  opera-glass.  The 
day  was  warm;  he  was  heated  with  walking,  and  he 
repeatedly,  with  vague  weariness,  passed  his  hand' 
kerchief  over  his  forehead.  And  yet  he  was  evidently 
not  a  man  to  whom  fatigue  was  familiar;  long,  lean, 
and  muscular,  he  suggested  an  intensity  of  uncon- 
scious resistance.  His  exertions  on  this  particular  day, 
however,  had  been  of  an  unwonted  sort,  and  he  had 
often  performed  great  physical  feats  that  left  him 
less  jaded  than  his  quiet  stroll  through  the  Louvre. 
He  had  looked  out  all  the  pictures  to  which  an  asterisk 
was  affixed  in  those  formidable  pages  of  fine  print  m 
his  Badeker;  his  attention  had  been  strained  and  his 
eyes  dazzled;  he  had  sat  down  with  an  aesthetic 


THE  AMERICAN 


headache.  He  had  looked,  moreover,  not  only  at  all 
the  pictures,  but  at  all  the  copies  that  were  going 
forward  around  them  in  the  hands  of  those  innumer- 
able young  women  in  long  aprons,  on  high  stools, 
who  devote  themselves,  in  France,  to  the  reproduc- 
tion of  masterpieces;  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
he  had  often  admired  the  copy  much  more  than  the 
original.  His  physiognomy  would  have  sufficiently 
indicated  that  he  was  a  shrewd  and  capable  person, 
and  in  truth  he  had  often  sat  up  all  night  over  a 
bristling  bundle  of  accounts  and  heard  the  cock 
crow  without  a  yawn.  But  Raphael  and  Titian  and 
Rubens  were  a  new  kind  of  arithmetic,  and  they 
made  him  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  wonder  at  his 
vaguenesses. 

An  observer  with  anything  of  an  eye  for  local  types 
would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  referring  this  candid 
connoisseur  to  the  scene  of  his  origin,  and  indeed  such 
an  observer  might  have  made  an  ironic  point  of  the 
almost  ideal  completeness  with  which  he  filled  out 
the  mould  of  race.  The  gentleman  on  the  divan  was 
the  superlative  American;  to  which  affirmation  of 
character  he  was  partly  helped  by  the  general  easy 
magnificence  of  his  manhood.  He  appeared  to  possess 
that  kind  of  health  and  strength  which,  when  found 
in  perfection,  are  the  most  impressive  —  the  physical 
tone  which  the  owner  does  nothing  to  "keep  up." 
If  he  was  a  muscular  Christian  it  was  quite  without 
doctrine.  If  it  was  necessary  to  walk  to  a  remote  spot 
he  walked,  but  he  had  never  known  himself  to 
"exercise."  He  had  no  theory  with  regard  to  cold 
bathing  or  the  use  of  Indian  clubs;  he  was  neither  an 

2 


THE  AMERICAN 

oarsman,  a  rifleman  nor  a  fencer  —  he  had  never 
had  time  for  these  amusements  —  and  he  was  quite 
unaware  that  the  saddle  is  recommended  for  certain 
forms  of  indigestion.  He  was  by  inclination  a  tem- 
perate man;  but  he  had  supped  the  night  before  his 
visit  to  the  Louvre  at  the  Cafe  Anglais  —  some  one 
had  told  him  it  was  an  experience  not  to  be  omitted  — 
and  he  had  slept  none  the  less  the  sleep  of  the  just. 
His  usual  attitude  and  carriage  had  a  liberal  loose- 
ness, but  when,  under  a  special  inspiration,  he 
straightened  himself  he  looked  a  grenadier  on  parade. 
He  had  never  tasted  tobacco.  He  had  been  assured  — 
such  things  are  said  —  that  cigars  are  excellent  for 
the  health,  and  he  was  quite  capable  of  believing  it; 
but  he  would  no  more  have  thought  of  "taking"  one 
than  of  taking  a  dose  of  medicine.  His  complexion 
was  brown  and  the  arch  of  his  nose  bold  and  well- 
marked.  His  eye  was  of  a  clear,  cold  grey,  and  save 
for  the  abundant  droop  of  his  moustache  he  spoke, 
as  to  cheek  and  chin,  of  the  joy  of  the  matutinal  steel. 
He  had  the  flat  jaw  and  the  firm,  dry  neck  which  are 
frequent  in  the  American  type;  but  the  betrayal  of 
native  conditions  is  a  matter  of  expression  even  more 
than  of  feature,  and  it  was  in  this  respect  that  our 
traveller's  countenance  was  supremely  eloquent.  The 
observer  we  have  been  supposing  might,  however, 
perfectly  have  measured  its  expressiveness  and  yet 
have  been  at  a  loss  for  names  and  terms  to  fit  it.  It 
had  that  paucity  of  detail  which  is  yet  not  empti- 
ness, that  blankness  which  is  not  simplicity,  that  look 
of  being  committed  to  nothing  in  particular,  of  stand- 
ing in  a  posture  of  general  hospitality  to  the  chances 

3 


THE  AMERICAN 

of  life,  of  being  very  much  at  one's  own  disposal, 
characteristic  of  American  faces  of  the  clear  strain. 
It  was  the  eye,  in  this  case,  that  chiefly  told  the  story; 
an  eye  in  which  the  unacquainted  and  the  expert  were 
singularly  blended.  It  was  full  of  contradictory  sug- 
gestions; and  though  it  was  by  no  means  the  glowing 
orb  of  a  hero  of  romance  you  could  find  in  it  almost 
anything  you  looked  for.  Frigid  and  yet  friendly, 
frank  yet  cautious,  shrewd  yet  credulous,  positive  yet 
sceptical,  confident  yet  shy,  extremely  intelligent  and 
extremely  good-humoured,  there  was  something 
vaguely  defiant  in  its  concessions  and  something 
profoundly  reassuring  in  its  reserve.  The  wide  yet 
partly  folded  wings  of  this  gentleman's  moustache, 
with  the  two  premature  wrinkles  in  the  cheek 
above  it,  and  the  fashion  of  his  garments,  in 
which  an  exposed  shirt-front  and  a  blue  satin  necktie 
of  too  light  a  shade  played  perhaps  an  obtrusive  part, 
completed  the  elements  of  his  identity.  We  have  ap- 
proached him  perhaps  at  a  not  especially  favourable 
moment;  he  is  by  no  means  sitting  for  his  portrait. 
But  listless  as  he  lounges  there,  rather  baffled  on  the 
aesthetic  question  and  guilty  of  the  damning  fault  (as 
we  have  lately  discovered  it  to  be)  of  confounding  the 
aspect  of  the  artist  with  that  of  his  work  (for  he  ad- 
mires the  squinting  Madonna  of  the  young  lady  with 
the  hair  that  somehow  also  advertises  "art,"  because 
he  thinks  the  young  lady  herself  uncommonly  taking), 
he  is  a  sufficiently  promising  acquaintance.  Decision, 
salubrity,  jocosity,  prosperity,  seem  to  hover  within 
his  call;  he  is  evidently  a  man  of  business,  but  the 
term  appears  to  confess,  for  his  particular  benefit,  to 

4 


THE  AMERICAN 

undefined  and  mysterious  boundaries  which  invite  the 
imagination  to  bestir  itself. 

As  the  little  copyist  proceeded  with  her  task,  her 
attention  addressed  to  her  admirer,  from  time  to  time, 
for  reciprocity,  one  of  its  blankest,  though  not  of  its 
briefest,  missives.  The  working-out  of  her  scheme 
appeared  to  call,  in  her  view,  for  a  great  deal  of  vivid 
by-play,  a  great  standing  off  with  folded  arms  and 
head  dropping  from  side  to  side,  stroking  of  a  dim- 
pled chin  with  a  dimpled  hand,  sighing  and  frowning 
and  patting  of  the  foot,  fumbling  in  disordered  tresses 
for  wandering  hair-pins.  These  motions  were  accom- 
panied by  a  far-straying  glance,  which  tripped  up, 
occasionally,  as  it  were,  on  the  tall  arrested  gentle- 
man. At  last  he  rose  abruptly  and,  putting  on  his  hat 
as  if  for  emphasis  of  an  austere  intention,  approached 
the  young  lady.  He  placed  himself  before  her  picture 
and  looked  at  it  for  a  time  during  which  she  pre- 
tended to  be  quite  unconscious  of  his  presence.  Then, 
invoking  her  intelligence  with  the  single  word  that 
constituted  the  strength  of  his  French  vocabulary, 
and  holding  up  one  finger  in  a  manner  that  appeared 
to  him  to  illuminate  his  meaning,  "  Combien  ? "  he 
abruptly  demanded. 

The  artist  stared  a  moment,  gave  a  small  pout, 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  put  down  her  palette  and 
brushes  and  stood  rubbing  her  hands. 

"How  much  ?"  said  our  friend  in  English.  "Com- 
lien?" 

"  Monsieur  wishes  to  buy  it  1"  she  asked  in  French 

"Very  pretty.  Splendide.  Combien?'9  repeated  the 
American. 

5 


THE  AMERICAN 

"It  pleases  monsieur,  my  little  picture  ?  It's  a  very 
beautiful  subject,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"The  Madonna,  yes;  I'm  not  a  real  Catholic,  but 
I  want  to  buy  it.  Combien  ?  Figure  it  right  there." 
And  he  took  a  pencil  from  his  pocket  and  showed  her 
the  fly-leaf  of  his  guide-book.  She  stood  looking  at 
him  and  scratching  her  chin  with  the  pencil.  "Is  n't 
it  for  sale  ?"  he  asked.  And  as  she  still  stood  reflect- 
ing, probing  him  with  eyes  which,  in  spite  of  her  de- 
sire to  treat  this  avidity  of  patronage  as  a  very  old 
story,  added  to  her  flush  of  incredulity,  he  was  afraid 
he  had  offended  her.  She  was  simply  trying  to  look 
indifferent,  wondering  how  far  she  might  go.  "I 
have  n't  made  a  mistake  —  pas  insulte,  no  ? "  her 
interlocutor  continued.  "Don't  you  understand  a 
little  English?" 

The  young  lady's  aptitude  for  playing  a  part  at 
short  notice  was  remarkable.  She  fixed  him  with  all 
her  conscious  perception  and  asked  him  if  he  spoke 
no  French.  Then  "Donnez!"  she  said  briefly,  and 
took  the  open  guide-book.  In  the  upper  corner  of 
the  fly-leaf  she  traced  a  number  in  a  minute  and 
extremely  neat  hand.  On  which  she  handed  back  the 
book  and  resumed  her  palette. 

Our  friend  read  the  number:  "2000  francs."  He 
said  nothing  for  a  time,  but  stood  looking  at  the  pic- 
ture while  the  copyist  began  actively  to  dabble  with 
her  paint.  "For  a  copy,  is  n't  that  a  good  deal  ?"  he 
inquired  at  last.  "Pas  beaucoup?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  from  her  palette,  scanned  him 
from  head  to  foot,  and  alighted  with  admirable  sagac- 
ity upon  exactly  the  right  answer.  "Yes,  it's  a  good 

6 


THE  AMERICAN 

deal.  But  my  copy  is  extremely  soigne.  That's  its 
value." 

The  gentleman  in  whom  we  are  interested  under- 
stood no  French,  but  1  have  said  he  was  intelligent, 
and  here  is  a  good  chance  to  prove  it.  He  appre- 
hended, by  a  natural  instinct,  the  meaning  of  the 
young  woman's  phrase,  and  it  gratified  him  to  find 
her  so  honest.  Beauty,  therefore  talent,  rectitude; 
she  combined  everything!  "But  you  must  finish  it," 
he  said.  " Finish,  you  know ;  "  and  he  pointed  to 
the  unpainted  hand  of  the  figure. 

"Oh,  it  shall  be  finished  in  perfection  —  in  the  per- 
fection of  perfections!"  cried  mademoiselle;  and  to 
confirm  her  promise  she  deposited  a  rosy  blotch  in  the 
middle  of  the  Madonna's  cheek. 

But  the  American  frowned.  "  Ah,  too  red,  too  red ! " 
he  objected.  "Her  complexion,"  pointing  to  the 
Murillo,  "is  more  delicate." 

"Delicate  ?  Oh  it  shall  be  delicate,  monsieur;  deli- 
cate as  Sevres  biscuit.  I'm  going  to  tone  that  down; 
I  promise  you  it  shall  have  a  surface!  And  where 
will  you  allow  us  to  send  it  to  you  ?  Your  address." 

"My  address  ?  Oh  yes!"  And  the  gentleman  drew 
a  card  from  his  pocket-book  and  wrote  something 
on  it.  Then  hesitating  a  moment:  "If  I  don't  like  it 
when  it  is  finished,  you  know,  I  shall  not  be  obliged 
to  pay  for  it." 

The  young  lady  seemed  as  good  a  guesser  as  him- 
self. "  Oh,  I  'm  very  sure  monsieur 's  not  capricious ! " 

"Capricious?"  And  at  this  monsieur  began  to 
laugh.  "Oh  no,  I  'm  not  capricious.  I  'm  very  faith- 
ful. I'm  very  constant.  Comprenez?" 

7 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Monsieur's  constant;  I  understand  perfectly. 
It 's  not  the  case  of  all  the  world.  To  recompense  you, 
you  shall  have  your  picture  on  the  first  possible  day; 
next  week  —  as  soon  as  it 's  dry.  1  '11  take  the  card 
of  monsieur."  And  she  took  it  and  read  his  name: 
"Christopher  Newman."  Then  she  tried  to  repeat  it 
aloud  and  laughed  at  her  bad  accent.  "  Your  English 
names  are  not  commodes  to  say!" 

"Well,  mine's  partly  celebrated,"  said  Mr.  New- 
man, laughing  too.  "Did  you  never  hear  of  Christo- 
pher Columbus  ?" 

" Bien  sur  !  He  first  showed  Americans  the  way  to 
Europe;  a  very  great  man.  And  is  he  your  patron  ?" 

"My  patron?" 

"Your  patron  saint,  such  as  we  all  have." 

"Oh,  exactly;    my  parents  named  me  after  him." 

"Monsieur  is  American  then  too?" 

"Does  n't  it  stick  right  out  ?"  monsieur  enquired. 

"And  you  mean  to  carry  my  dear  little  picture  away 
over  there  ? "  She  explained  her  phrase  with  a  gesture. 

"Oh,  I  mean  to  buy  a  great  many  pictures  —  beau- 
coup,  beaucoup"  said  Christopher  Newman. 

"The  honour's  not  less  for  me,"  the  young  lady 
answered,  "for  I  'm  sure  monsieur  has  a  great  deal  of 


taste." 


"  But  you  must  give  me  your  card,"  Newman  went 
on;  "your  card,  you  know." 

The  young  lady  looked  severe  an  instant.  "My 
father  will  wait  on  you." 

But  this  time  Mr.  Newman's  powers  of  divination 
were  at  fault.  "Your  card,  your  address,"  he  simply 
repeated. 

8 


THE  AMERICAN 

"My  address  ?"  said  mademoiselle.  Then,  with  a 
little  shrug:  ** Happily  for  you,  you're  a  stranger  — 
of  a  distinction  qui  se  voit.  It 's  the  first  time  I  ever 
gave  my  card  to  a  gentleman."  And,  taking  from  her 
pocket  a  well-worn  flat  little  wallet,  she  extracted  from 
it  a  small  glazed  visiting-card  and  presented  the  latter 
to  her  client.  It  was  neatly  inscribed  in  pencil,  with  a 
great  many  flourishes,  "  Mile.  Noemie  Nioche."  But 
Mr.  Newman,  unlike  his  companion,  read  the  name 
with  perfect  gravity;  all  French  names  to  him  were 
equally  incommodes. 

44 And  precisely  —  how  it  happens!  —  here's  my 
father;  he  has  come  to  escort  me  home,"  said  Made- 
moiselle Noemie.  "He  speaks  English  beautifully. 
He  '11  arrange  with  you/'  And  she  turned  to  welcome 
a  little  old  gentleman  who  came  shuffling  up  and  peer- 
ing over  his  glasses  at  Newman. 

M.  Nioche  wore  a  glossy  wig,  of  an  unnatural 
colour,  which  overhung  his  little  meek,  white,  vacant 
face,  leaving  it  hardly  more  expressive  than  the  un- 
featured  block  upon  which  these  articles  are  dis- 
played in  the  barber's  window.  He  was  an  exquisite 
image  of  shabby  gentility.  His  scant,  ill-made  coat, 
desperately  brushed,  his  darned  gloves,  his  highly 
polished  boots,  his  rusty,  shapely  hat,  told  the  story  of 
a  person  who  had  "had  losses  "  and  who  clung  to  the 
spirit  of  nice  habits  even  though  the  letter  had  been 
hopelessly  effaced.  Among  other  things  M.  Nioche 
had  lost  courage.  Adversity  had  not  only  deprived 
him  of  means,  it  had  deprived  him  of  confidence  —  so 
frightened  him  that  he  was  going  through  his  rem- 
nant of  life  on  tiptoe,  lest  he  should  wake  up  afresh 

9 


THE  AMERICAN 

the  hostile  fates.  If  this  strange  gentleman  should  be 
saying  anything  improper  to  his  daughter  M.  Nioche 
would  entreat  him  huskily,  as  a  particular  favour,  to 
forbear;  but  he  would  admit  at  the  same  time  that  he 
was  very  presumptuous  to  ask  for  particular  favours. 

"  Monsieur  has  bought  my  picture/'  said  Mademoi- 
selle Noemie.  "When  it 's  finished  you'll  carry  it  to 
him  in  a  cab." 

"In  a  cab!"  cried  M.  Nioche;  and  he  stared,  in 
a  bewildered  way,  as  if  he  had  seen  the  sun  rising  at 
midnight. 

"  Are  you  the  young  lady's  father  ? "  said  Newman, 
"I  think  she  said  you  speak  English." 

"Spick  English — yes."  The  old  man  slowly 
rubbed  his  hands.  "I'll  bring  it  in  a  cab." 

"  Say  something  then,"  cried  his  da  ughter.  "  Thank 
him  a  little  —  not  too  much." 

"A  little,  my  daughter,  a  little  ?"  he  murmured  in 
distress.  "How  much?" 

"Two  thousand!"  said  Mademoiselle  Noemie. 
"Don't  make  a  fuss  or  he  '11  take  back  his  word." 

"Two  thousand!"  gasped  the  old  man;  and  he 
began  to  fumble  for  his  snuff-box.  He  looked  at  New- 
man from  head  to  foot ;  he  looked  at  his  daughter 
and  then  at  the  picture.  "Take  care  you  don't  spoil 
it!"  he  cried  almost  sublimely. 

"We  must  go  home,"  said  Mademoiselle  Noemie. 
'This  is  a  good  day's  work.  Take  care  how  you  carry 
it!"  And  she  began  to  put  up  her  utensils. 

"How  can  I  thank  you  ?"  asked  M.  Nioche.  "My 
English  is  far  from  sufficing." 

"I  wish  I  spoke  French  half  so  well,"  said  New- 

10 


THE  AMERICAN 

man  good-naturedly.    "Your  daughter  too,  you  see, 
makes  herself  understood." 

"Oh  sir!"  and  M.  Nioche  looked  over  his  spec- 
tacles with  tearful  eyes,  nodding  out  of  his  depths  of 
sadness.  "  She  has  had  an  education  —  tres-supen- 
eurel  Nothing  was  spared.  Lessons  in  pastel  at  ten 
francs  the  lesson,  lessons  in  oil  at  twelve  francs.  1 
did  n't  look  at  the  francs  then.  She 's  a  serious 
worker." 

"Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you've  had  a  bad 
time?"  asked  Newman. 

"A  bad  time  ?  Oh  sir,  misfortunes  —  terrible!" 

"Unsuccessful  in  business?" 

"Very  unsuccessful,  sir." 

"Oh,  never  fear;  you'll  get  on  your  legs  again," 
said  Newman  cheerily. 

The  old  man  cast  his  head  to  one  side;  he  wore  an 
expression  of  pain,  as  if  this  were  an  unfeeling  jest: 
whereupon  "What  is  it  he  says?"  Mademoiselle 
Noemie  demanded. 

M.  Nioche  took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  "  He  says  I  shall 
make  my  fortune  again." 

"  Perhaps  he  '11  help  you.  And  what  else  ? " 

"He  says  thou  hast  a  great  deal  of  head." 

"It's  very  possible.  You  believe  it  yourself,  my 
father." 

"Believe  it,  my  daughter?  With  this  evidence!" 
And  the  old  man  turned  afresh,  in  staring,  wondering 
homage,  to  the  audacious  daub  on  the  easel. 

"Ask  him  then  if  he'd  not  like  to  learn  French." 

"To  learn  French?" 

"To  take  lessons." 

.    II 


THE  AMERICAN 

"To  take  lessons,  my  daughter  ?  From  thee  ?" 

"From  thee." 

"  From  me,  my  child  ?  How  should  I  give  lessons  ? " 

"Pas  de  raisons !  Ask  him  immediately!"  said 
Mademoiselle  Noemie  with  soft  shortness. 

M.  Nioche  stood  aghast,  but  under  his  daughter's 
eye  he  collected  his  wits  and,  doing  his  best  to  assume 
an  agreeable  smile,  executed  her  commands.  "Would 
it  please  you  to  receive  instruction  in  our  beautiful 
language  ? "  he  brought  out  with  an  appealing  qua- 
ver. 

"To  study  French  ?"  Newman  was  rather  struck. 

M.  Nioche  pressed  his  finger-tips  together  and 
slowly  raised  his  shoulders.  "A  little  practice  in 
conversation!" 

"Practice,  conversation  —  that's  it!"  murmured 
Mademoiselle  Noemie,  who  had  caught  the  words. 
"The  conversation  of  the  best  society." 

"Our  French  conversation  is  rather  famous,  you 
know,"  M.  Nioche  ventured  to  continue.  "It's  the 
genius  of  our  nation." 

"But  —  except  for  your  nation  —  isn't  it  almost 
impossible?"  asked  Newman  very  simply. 

"Not  to  a  man  of  esprit  like  monsieur,  an  admirer 
of  beauty  in  every  form! "  And  M.  Nioche  cast  a  sig- 
nificant glance  at  his  daughter's  Madonna. 

"I  can't  fancy  myself  reeling  off  fluent  French!" 
Newman  protested.  "And  yet  I  suppose  the  more 
things,  the  more  names  of  things,  a  man  knows,  the 
better  he  can  get  round." 

"  Monsieur  expresses  that  very  happily.  The  better 
he  can  get  round.  Helas,  oui!  " 

12 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  suppose  it  would  help  me  a  great  deal,  knocking 
about  Paris,  to  be  able  to  try  at  least  to  talk." 

"Ah,  there  are  so  many  things  monsieur  must 
want  to  say:  remarkable  things,  and  proportionately 
difficult." 

"Everything  I  want  to  say  is  proportionately  diffi- 
cult. But  you  're  in  the  habit  of  giving  lessons  ? " 

Poor  M.  Nioche  was  embarrassed;  he  smiled  more 
appealingly.  "I'm  not  a  regular  professor,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "I  can't  pourtant  tell  him  I've  a  diploma," 
he  said  to  his  daughter. 

"Tell  him  it's  a  very  exceptional  chance,"  an- 
swered mademoiselle;  "an  homme  du  monde  —  one 
perfect  gentleman  conversing  with  another.  Remem- 
ber what  you  are.  Remember  what  you  have  been." 

"A  teacher  of  languages  in  neither  case!  Much 
more  dans  le  temps  and  much  less  to-day  1  And  if  he 
asks  the  price  of  the  lessons  ?" 

"He  won't  ask  it,"  said  the  girl. 

"What  he  pleases,  I  may  say?" 

"Never!    That's  bad  style." 

"But  if  he  wants  to  know  ?" 

Mademoiselle  Noemie  had  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
was  tying  the  ribbons.  She  smoothed  them  out,  her 
shell-like  little  chin  thrust  forward.  "Ten  francs," 
she  said  quickly. 

"Oh  my  daughter!    I  shall  never  dare." 

"Don't  dare  then!  He  won't  ask  till  the  end  of  the 
lessons,  and  you  '11  let  me  make  out  the  bill." 

M.  Nioche  turned  to  the  confiding  foreigner  again 
and  stood  rubbing  his  hands  with  his  air  of  standing 
convicted  of  almost  any  counsel  of  despair.  It  never 


THE  AMERICAN 

occurred  to  Newman  to  plead  for  a  guarantee  of  his 
skill  in  imparting  instruction;  he  supposed  of  course 
M.  Nioche  knew  the  language  he  so  beautifully  pro- 
nounced, and  his  brokenness  of  spring  was  quite  the 
perfection  of  what  the  American,  for  vague  reasons, 
had  always  associated  with  all  elderly  foreigners  of  the 
lesson-giving  class  Newman  had  never  reflected  upon 
philological  processes.  His  chief  impression  with 
regard  to  any  mastery  of  those  mysterious  correla- 
tives of  his  familiar  English  vocables  which  were  cur- 
rent in  this  extraordinary  city  of  Paris  was  that  it 
would  be  simply  a  matter  of  calling  sharply  into  play 
latent  but  dormant  muscles  and  sinews.  "How  did 
you  learn  so  much  English?"  he  asked  of  the  old 
man. 

"Oh,  I  could  do  things  when  I  was  young  —  before 
my  miseries.  I  was  wide  awake  then.  My  father  was 
a  great  commer^ant;  he  placed  me  for  a  year  in  a 
counting-house  in  England.  Some  of  it  stuck  to  me, 
but  much  I've  forgotten!" 

"How  much  French  can  I  learn  in  about  a  month  ?" 

"What  does  he  say?'*  asked  mademoiselle;  and 
then  when  her  father  had  explained:  "He'll  speal 
like  an  angel!" 

But  the  native  integrity  which  had  been  vainly 
exerted  to  secure  M.  Nioche's  commercial  prosperity 
flickered  up  again.  "Dame*  monsieur!"  he  an- 
swered. "All  I  can  teach  you! "  And  then,  recovering 
himself  at  a  sign  from  his  daughter:  "I  '11  wait  upon 
you  at  your  hotel." 

"Oh  yes,  I  should  like  to  converse  with  elegance," 
Newman  went  on,  giving  his  friends  the  benefit  of  any 

H 


THE  AMERICAN 

vagueness.  "Hang  me  if  I  should  ever  have  thought 
of  it!  I  seemed  to  feel  it  too  far  off.  But  you've 
brought  it  quite  near,  and  if  you  could  catch  on  at  all 
to  our  grand  language  —  that  of  Shakespeare  and 
Milton  and  Holy  Writ  —  why  should  n't  I  catch  on  to 
yours  ? "  His  frank,  friendly  laugh  drew  the  sting  from 
the  jest.  "  Only,  if  we  're  going  to  converse,  you  know, 
you  must  think  of  something  cheerful  to  converse 
about." 

"You're  very  good,  sir;  I'm  overcome!"  And 
M.  Nioche  threw  up  his  hands.  "But  you've  cheer- 
fulness and  happiness  for  two!" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Newman  more  seriously.  "You 
must  be  bright  and  lively;  that's  part  of  the  bargain." 

M.  Nioche  bowed  with  his  hand  on  his  heart. 
"Very  well,  sir;  you've  struck  up  a  tune  I  could 
almost  dance  to!" 

"Come  and  bring  me  my  picture  then;  I'll  pay 
you  for  it,  and  we'll  talk  about  that.  That  will  be 
a  cheerful  subject!" 

Mademoiselle  Noemie  had  collected  her  access- 
ories and  she  gave  the  precious  Madonna  in  charge 
to  her  father,  who  retreated  backwards,  out  of  sight, 
holding  it  at  arm's  length  and  reiterating  his  obeis- 
ances. The  young  lady  gathered  her  mantle  about  her 
like  a  perfect  Parisienne,  and  it  was  with  the  "An 
revoir,  monsieur!"  of  a  perfect  Parisienne  that  she 
took  leave  of  her  patron. 


II 

THIS  personage  wandered  back  to  the  divan  and 
seated  himself,  on  the  other  side,  in  view  of  the  great 
canvas  on  which  Paul  Veronese  has  spread,  to  swarm 
and  glow  there  for  ever,  the  marriage-feast  of  Cana  of 
Galilee.  Weary  as  he  was  his  spirit  went  out  to  the 
picture;  it  had  an  illusion  for  him;  it  satisfied  his  con- 
ception, which  was  strenuous,  of  what  a  splendid  ban- 
quet should  be.  In  the  left-hand  corner  is  a  young 
woman  with  yellow  tresses  confined  in  a  golden  head- 
dress; she  bends  forward  and  listens,  with  the  smile 
of  a  charming  person  at  a  dinner-party,  to  her  festal 
neighbour.  Newman  detected  her  in  the  crowd,  ad- 
mired her  and  perceived  that  she  too  had  her  votive 
copyist  —  a  young  man  whose  genius,  like  that  of 
Samson,  might  have  been  in  his  bristling  hair.  Sud- 
denly he  was  aware  of  the  prime  throb  of  the  mania 
of  the  "collector."  He  had  taken  the  first  step  —  why 
should  he  not  go  on  ?  It  was  only  twenty  minutes 
before  that  he  had  bought  the  first  picture  of  his  life, 
and  now  he  was  already  thinking  of  art-patronage  as  a 
pursuit  that  might  float  even  so  heavy  a  weight  as  him- 
self. His  reflexions  quickened  his  good-humour  and 
he  was  on  the  point  of  approaching  the  young  man 
with  another  "  Combienf"  Two  or  three  facts  in  this 
relation  are  noticeable,  although  the  logical  chain 
that  connects  them  may  seem  imperfect.  He  knew 

16 


THE  AMERICAN 

Mademoiselle  Nioche  had  asked  too  much;  he  bore 
her  no  grudge  for  doing  so,  and  he  was  determined  to 
pay  the  young  man  exactly  the  proper  sum.  At  this 
moment,  however,  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
gentleman  who  had  come  from  another  part  of  the 
room  and  whose  manner  was  that  of  a  stranger  to  the 
gallery,  though  he  was  equipped  neither  with  guide- 
book nor  with  opera-glass.  He  carried  a  white  sun- 
umbrella  lined  with  blue  silk,  and  he  strolled  in  front 
of  the  great  picture,  vaguely  looking  at  it  but  much 
too  near  to  see  anything  but  the  grain  of  the  canvas. 
Opposite  Christopher  Newman  he  paused  and  turned, 
and  then  our  friend,  who  had  been  observing  him,  had 
a  chance  to  verify  a  suspicion  roused  by  an  imperfect 
view  of  his  face.  The  result  of  the  larger  scrutiny 
was  that  he  presently  sprang  to  his  feet,  strode  across 
the  room  and,  with  an  outstretched  hand,  arrested 
this  blank  spectator.  The  gaping  gentleman  gaped 
afresh,  but  put  out  his  hand  at  a  venture.  He  was 
large,  smooth  and  pink,  with  the  air  of  a  successfully 
potted  plant,  and  though  his  countenance,  orna- 
mented with  a  beautiful  flaxen  beard  carefully  di- 
vided in  the  middle  and  brushed  outward  at  the  sideSy 
was  not  remarkable  for  intensity  of  expression,  it  was 
exclusive  only  in  the  degree  of  the  open  door  of  air 
hotel  —  it  would  have  been  closed  to  the  undesirable. 
It  was  for  Newman  in  fact  as  if  at  first  he  had  been 
but  invited  to  "register." 

"Oh  come,  come,"  he  said,  laughing;  "don't  say 
now  you  don't  know  me  —  if  I  've  not  got  a  white 
parasol!" 

His  tone  penetrated;  the  other's  face  expanded  to 
;%  17 


THE  AMERICAN 

its  fullest  capacity  and  then  broke  into  gladness, 
"Why,  Christopher  Newman  —  I'll  be  Mowed! 
Where  in  the  world  —  ?  Who  would  have  thought  ? 
You've  carried  out  such  extensive  alterations." 

"Well,  I  guess  you've  not,"  said  Newman. 

"Oh  no,  I  hold  together  very  much  as  I  was.    But 
when  did  you  get  here?" 

" Three  days  ago." 

"Then  why  did  n't  you  let  me  know  ?" 

"How  was  I  to  be  aware  -  ?" 

"Why,  I've  been  located  here  quite  a  while." 

"Yes,  it 's  quite  a  while  since  we  last  met." 

"Well,  it  feels  long—  since  the  War." 

"It  was   in   Saint  Louis,   at  the  outbreak.    You 
were  going  for  a  soldier,"  Newman  said. 

"Oh  no,  not  I.  It  was  you.    Have  you  forgotten  ?" 

"You  bring  it  unpleasantly  back." 

"Then  you  did  take  your  turn?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  took  my  turn.    But  that  was  nothing, 
I  seem  to  feel,  to  this  turn." 

"How  long  then  have  you  been  in  Europe?" 

"Just  seventeen  days." 

"First  time  you've  been  ?" 

"Yes,  quite  immensely  the  first." 

Newman's  friend  had  been  looking  him  all  over, 
"Made  your  everlasting  fortune?" 

Our  gentleman  was  silent  a  little,  and  then  with 
a  tranquil  smile,  "Well,  I've  grubbed,"  he  answered. 

"And  come  to  buy  Paris  up  ?  Paris  i'j  for  sale,  you 
know." 

"Well,  I  shall  see  what  I  can  do  about  it.    So  they 
carry  those  parasols  here  —  the  men-folk?" 

18 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Of  course  they  do.  They're  great  things,  these 
parasols.  They  understand  detail  out  here." 

"Where  do  you  buy  them?" 

"Anywhere,  everywhere." 

"Well,  Tristram,  I'm  glad  to  get  hold  of  you.  1 
guess  you  can  tell  me  a  good  deal.  I  suppose  you  know 
Paris  pretty  correctly,"  Newman  pursued. 

Mr.  Tristram's  face  took  a  rosy  light.  "Well,  1 
guess  there  are  not  many  men  that  can  show  me 
much.  I  '11  take  care  of  you." 

"It's  a  pity  you  were  not  here  a  few  minutes  ago. 
I've  just  bought  a  picture.  You  might  have  put  the 
thing  through  for  me." 

"Bought  a  picture?"  said  Mr.  Tristram,  locking 
vaguely  round  the  walls.  "  Why,  do  they  sell  them  ?" 

"I  mean  a  copy." 

"Oh,  I  see.  These"  —  and  Mr.  Tristram  nodded 
at  the  Titians  and  Vandykes  —  "these,  I  suppose,  are 
originals  ?" 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Newman.  "1  don't  want  a  copy 
of  a  copy." 

"Ah,"  his  friend  sagaciously  returned,  "you  can 
never  tell.  They  imitate,  you  know,  so  deucedly  well. 
It 's  like  the  jewellers  with  their  false  stones.  Go  into 
the  Palais  Royal  there;  you  see  *  Imitation'  on  half 
the  windows.  The  law  obliges  them  to  stick  it  on,  you 
know;  but  you  can't  tell  the  things  apart.  To  tell  the 
truth,"  Mr.  Tristram  continued  —  and  his  grimace 
seemed  a  turn  of  the  screw  of  discrimination  —  "I 
don't  do  so  very  much  in  pictures.  They're  one  of  the 
things  1  leave  to  my  wife." 

"Ah,  you've  acquired  a  wife?" 

19 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Did  n't  1  mention  it  ?  She's  a  very  smart  \\oman. 
You  must  come  right  round.  She's  up  there  in  the 
Avenue  d'lena." 

"So  you're  regularly  fixed  —  house  and  children 
and  all'?" 

"Yes;  a  tip-top  house,  and  a  couple  of  charming 
cubs." 

"Well,"  sighed  Christopher  Newman,  stretching  his 
arms  a  little,  "you  affect  me  with  a  queer  feeling  that 
1  suppose  to  be  envy." 

"Oh  no,  I  don't,"  answered  Mr.  Tristram,  giving 
him  a  little  poke  with  his  parasol. 

"1  beg  your  pardon;  you  do." 

"Well,  1  shan't  then,  when  —  when  —  !" 

"You  don't  certainly  mean  when  I've  seen  your 
pleasant  home  ?" 

"  When  you 've  made  your*,  my  boy.  When  you 've 
seen  Paris.  You  want  to  be  in  light  marching  order 
here." 

"Oh,  1  've  skipped  about  in  my  bhiit  all  my  life,  and 
I've  had  about  enough  of  it." 

"Well,  try  it  on  the  basis  of  Paris.  That  makes 
a  new  thing  of  it.  How  old  may  you  be  ?" 

"Forty-two  and  a  half,  1  guess." 

"C'est  le  bet  age,  as  they  say  here." 

Newman  reflected.  "Does  that  mean  the  age  of  the 
belly?" 

"It  means  that  a  man  shouldn't  send  away  his 
plate  till  he  has  eaten  his  fill." 

"It  comes  to  the  same  thing.  I've  just  made  ar- 
rangements, anyhow,  to  take  lessons  in  the  language." 

"Oh,  you  don't  want  any  lessons.    You'll  pick  it 

20 


THE  AMERICAN 
right  up.    I  never  required  nor  received  any  instruc- 


tion." 


"You  speak  it  then  as  easily  as  English  ?" 

"Easier!"  said  Mr.  Tristram  roundly.  "It's  a 
splendid  language.  You  can  say  all  sorts  of  gay 
things  in  it.*' 

"  But  I  suppose,"  said  Christopher  Newman  with 
an  earnest  desire  for  information,  "that  you  must  be 
pretty  gay  to  begin  with." 

"Not  a  bit:   that's  just  the  beauty  of  it!" 

The  two  friends,  as  they  exchanged  these  remarks, 
which  dropped  from  them  without  a  pause,  had 
remained  standing  where  they  met  and  leaning  against 
the  rail  which  protected  the  pictures.  Mr.  Tristram  at 
last  declared  that  he  was  overcome  with  lassitude  and 
should  be  happy  to  sit  down.  Newman  recommended 
in  the  highest  terms  the  great  divan  on  which  he  had 
been  lounging,  and  they  prepared  to  seat  themselves. 
"This  is  a  great  place,  is  n't  it  ?"  he  broke  out  with 
enthusiasm. 

"Great  place,  great  place.  Finest  thing  in  the 
world."  And  then  suddenly  Mr.  Tristram  hesitated 
and  looked  about.  "I  suppose  they  won't  let  you 
smoke?" 

Newman  stared.  "Smoke  ?  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know. 
You  know  the  regulations  better  than  I." 

"  I  ?    I  never  was  here  before." 

"Never!   all  your  six  years  ?" 

"I  believe  my  wife  dragged  me  here  once  when  we 
first  came  to  Paris,  but  I  never  found  my  way  back." 

"But  you  say  you  know  Paris  so  well!" 

"I  don't  call  this  Paris!"  cried  Mr.  Tristram  with 
*V  21 


THE  AMERICAN 

assurance.  "Come;  let's  go  over  to  the  Palais  Royal 
and  have  a  smoke." 

"I  don't  smoke,"  said  Newman. 

"What's  that  for?"  Mr.  Tristram  growled  as  he 
led  his  companion  away.  They  passed  through  the 
glorious  halls  of  the  Louvre,  down  the  staircases, 
along  the  cool,  dim  galleries  of  sculpture  and  out  into 
the  enormous  court.  Newman  looked  about  him  as  he 
went,  but  made  no  comments;  and  it  was  only  when 
they  at  last  emerged  into  the  open  air  that  he  said  to 
his  friend:  "It  seems  to  me  that  in  your  place  I'd 
have  come  here  once  a  week." 

"Oh  no,  you  wouldn't!"  said  Mr.  Tristram. 
"You  think  so,  but  you  would  n't.  You  would  n't 
have  had  time.  You  'd  always  mean  to  go,  but  you 
never  would  go.  There's  better  fun  than  that  here  in 
Paris.  Italy's  the  place  to  see  pictures;  wait  till  you 
get  there.  There  you  have  to  go;  you  can't  do  any- 
thing else.  It's  an  awful  country;  you  can't  get  a 
decent  cigar.  I  don't  know  why  1  went  into  that  place 
to-day.  I  was  strolling  along,  rather  hard  up  for 
amusement.  I  sort  of  took  in  the  Louvre  as  I  passed, 
and  I  thought  I  might  go  up  and  see  what  was  going 
on.  But  if  I  had  n't  found  you  there  I  should  have  felt 
rather  sold.  Hang  it,  I  don't  care  for  inanimate  can- 
vas or  for  cold  marble  beauty;  I  prefer  the  real 
thing!"  And  Mr.  Tristram  tossed  off  this  happy 
formula  with  an  assurance  which  the  numerous  class 
of  persons  suffering  from  an  overdose  of  prescribed 
taste  might  have  envied  him. 

The  two  gentlemen  proceeded  along  the  Rue  dc 
Rivoli  and  into  the  Palais  Royal,  where  they  seated 

22 


THE  AMERICAN 

themselves  at  one  of  the  little  tables  stationed  at  the 
door  of  the  cafe  which  projects,  or  then  projected, 
into  the  great  open  quadrangle.  The  place  was  filled 
with  people,  the  fountains  were  spouting,  a  band  was 
playing,  clusters  of  chairs  were  gathered  beneath 
all  the  lime-trees  and  buxom,  white-capped  nurses, 
seated  along  the  benches,  were  offering  to  their  infant 
charges  the  amplest  facilities  for  nutrition.  There  was 
an  easy,  homely  gaiety  in  the  whole  scene,  and  Chris- 
topher Newman  felt  it  to  be  characteristically,  richly 
Parisian. 

"And  now,"  began  Mr.  Tristram  when  they  had 
tasted  the  decoction  he  had  caused  to  be  served  to 
them,  —  "now  just  give  an  account  of  yourself.  Wha; 
are  your  ideas,  what  are  your  plans,  where  have  you 
come  from  and  where  are  you  going?  In  the  first 
place,  where  are  you  hanging  out  ?" 

"At  the  Grand  Hotel." 

He  put  out  all  his  lights.  "That  won't  do!  You 
must  change." 

"Change?"  demanded  Newman.  "Why,  it's  the 
finest  hotel  I  ever  was  in." 

"You  don't  want  a  'fine*  hotel;  you  want  some- 
thing small  and  quiet  and  superior,  where  your  bell's 
answered  and  your  personality  recognised." 

"They  keep  running  to  see  if  I  've  rung  before  I  Ve 
touched  the  bell,"  said  Newman,  "and  as  for  my  per- 
sonality they  're  always  bowing  and  scraping  to  it." 

"I  suppose  you're  always  tipping  them.  That's 
very  bad  style." 

"Always?  By  no  means.  A  man  brought  me  some- 
thing yesterday  and  then  stood  loafing  about  in  a  beg- 


THE  AMEPICAN 

garly  manner.  I  offered  him  a  chair  and  asked  him  if 
he'd  sit  down.    Was  that  bad  style?" 

"I'll  tell  my  wife!"  Tristram  simply  answered. 

"Tell  the  police  if  you  like!  He  bolted  right  away, 
at  any  rate.  The  place  quite  fascinates  me.  Hang 
your  '  superior '  if  it  bores  me.  I  sat  in  the  court  of  the 
Grand  Hotel  last  night  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, watching  the  coming  and  going  and  the  people 
knocking  about." 

"You're  easily  pleased.  But  you  can  do  as  you 
choose  —  a  man  in  your  shoes.  You  've  made  a  pile 
of  money,  hey  ? " 

"I've  made  about  enough." 

"Happy  the  man  who  can  say  that!  But  enough 
for  what?" 

"Enough  to  let  up  a  while,  to  forget  the  whole  ques- 
tion, to  look  about  me,  to  see  the  world,  to  have  a  good 
time,  to  improve  my  mind  and,  if  my  hour  strikes,  to 
marry  a  wife."  Newman  spoke  slowly,  with  a  quaint 
effect  of  dry  detachment  and  with  frequent  pauses. 
This  was  his  habitual  mode  of  utterance,  but  it  was 
especially  marked  in  the  words  just  recorded. 

"Jupiter,  there's  an  order!"  cried  Mr.  Tristram. 
"Certainly  all  that  takes  money,  especially  the  wife; 
unless  indeed  she  gives  it,  as  mine  did.  And  what's 
the  story  ?  How  have  you  done  it  ?" 

Newman  had  pushed  his  hat  back  from  his  fore- 
head, folded  his  arms  and  stretched  his  legs.  He 
listened  to  the  music,  he  looked  about  him  at  the 
bustling  crowd,  at  the  plashing  fountains,  at  the  nurses 
and  the  babies.  "Well,  I  have  n't  done  it  by  sitting 
round  this  way." 

24 


THE  AMERICAN 

Tristram  considered  him  again,  allowing  a  finer 
curiosity  to  measure  his  generous  longitude  and 
retrace  the  blurred  lines  of  his  resting  face.  "What 
have  you  been  in  ?" 

"Oh,  in  more  things  than  1  care  to  remember." 
"T  suppose  you're  a  real  live  man,  hey?" 
Newman  continued  to  look  at  the  nurses  and 
oabies;  they  imparted  to  the  scene  a  kind  of  primor- 
dial, pastoral  simplicity.  "Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "I 
guess  I  am."  And  then  in  answer  to  his  companion's 
enquiries  he  briefly  exposed  his  record  since  their  last 
meeting.  It  was,  with  intensity,  a  tale  of  the  Western 
world,  and  it  showed,  in  that  bright  alien  air,  very 
much  as  fine  dessicated,  articulated  "specimens," 
bleached,  monstrous,  probably  unique,  show  in  the 
high  light  of  museums  of  natural  history.  It  dealt 
with  elements,  incidents,  enterprises,  which  it  will  be 
needless  to  introduce  to  the  reader  in  detail;  the  deeps 
and  the  shallows,  the  ebb  and  the  flow,  of  great  finan- 
cial tides.  Newman  had  come  out  of  the  war  with 
a  brevet  of  brigadier-general,  an  honour  which  in  this 
case  —  without  invidious  comparisons  —  had  lighted 
upon  shoulders  amply  competent  to  carry  it.  But 
though  he  had  proved  he  could  handle  his  men,  and 
still  more  the  enemy's,  with  effect,  when  need  was,  he 
heartily  disliked  the  business;  his  four  years  in  the 
army  had  left  him  with  a  bitter  sense  of  the  waste 
of  precious  things  —  life  and  time  and  money  and  in- 
genuity and  opportunity;  and  he  had  addressed  him- 
self to  the  pursuits  of  peace  with  passionate  zest  and 
energy.  His  "  interests,"  already  mature,  had  mean- 
while, however,  waited  for  him,  so  that  the  capital  at 


THE  AMERICAN 

his  disposal  had  ceased  to  be  solely  his  whetted,  knife- 
edged  resolution  and  his  lively  perception  of  ends  and 
means.  Yet  these  were  his  real  arms,  and  exertion  and 
action  as  natural  to  him  as  respiration:  a  more  com- 
pletely healthy  mortal  had  never  trod  the  elastic  soil 
of  great  States  of  his  option.  His  experience  moreover 
had  been  as  wide  as  his  capacity;  necessity  had  in  his 
fourteenth  year  taken  him  by  his  slim  young  shoulders 
and  pushed  him  into  the  street  to  earn  that  night's 
supper.  He  had  not  earned  it,  but  he  had  earned  the 
next  night's,  and  afterwards,  whenever  he  had  had 
none,  it  was  because  he  had  gone  without  to  use  the 
money  for  something  else,  a  keener  pleasure  or  a  finer 
profit.  He  had  turned  his  hand,  with  his  brain  in  it, 
to  many  things;  he  had  defied  example  and  precedent 
and  probability,  had  adventured  almost  to  madness 
and  escaped  almost  by  miracles,  drinking  alike  of  the 
flat  water,  when  not  the  rank  poison,  of  failure,  and  of 
the  strong  wine  of  success. 

A  born  experimentalist,  he  had  always  found  some- 
thing to  enjoy  in  the  direct  pressure  of  fate  even  when 
it  was  as  irritating  as  the  haircloth  shirt  of  the  medi- 
aeval monk.  Atone  time  defeat  had  seemed  inexorably 
his  portion;  ill-luck  had  become  his  selfish  bed-fel- 
low, and  whatever  he  touched  had  turned  to  ashes 
out  of  which  no  gleaming  particle  could  be  raked.  His 
most  vivid  conception  of  a  supernatural  element  in  the 
world's  affairs  had  come  to  him  once  when  he  felt 
his  head  all  too  bullyingly  pummelled;  there  seemed 
ro  him  something  stronger  in  life  than  his  personal, 
intimate  will.  But  the  mysterious  something  could 
only  be  a  demon  as  personal  as  himself,  and  he  accord- 

26 


THE  AMERICAN 

ingly  found  himself  in  fine  working  opposition  to  this 
rival  concern.  He  had  known  what  it  was  to  have 
utterly  exhausted  his  credit,  to  be  unable  to  raise  a 
dollar  and  to  find  himself  at  nightfall  in  a  strange 
city,  without  a  penny  to  mitigate  its  strangeness.  It 
was  under  these  circumstances  that  he  had  made  his 
entrance  into  San  Francisco,  the  scene  subsequently 
of  his  most  victorious  engagements.  If  he  did  not,  like 
Dr.  Franklin  in  Philadelphia,  march  along  the  street 
munching  a  penny  loaf  it  was  only  because  he  had 
not  the  penny  loaf  necessary  to  the  performance.  In 
his  darkest  days  he  had  had  but  one  simple,  practical 
impulse  —  the  desire,  as  he  would  have  phrased  it,  to 
conclude  the  affair.  He  had  ended  by  concluding 
many,  had  at  last  buffeted  his  way  into  smooth  waters, 
had  begun  and  continued  to  add  dollars  to  dollars. 
It  must  be  rather  nakedly  owned  that  Newman's 
only  proposal  had  been  to  effect  that  addition  ; 
what  he  had  been  placed  in  the  world  for  was,  to  his 
own  conception,  simply  to  gouge  a  fortune,  the  bigger 
the  better,  out  of  its  hard  material.  This  idea  com- 
pletely filled  his  horizon  and  contented  his  imagina- 
tion. Upon  the  uses  of  money,  upon  what  one  might 
do  with  a  life  into  which  one  had  succeeded  in  inject- 
ing the  golden  stream,  he  had  up  to  the  eve  of  his 
fortieth  'year  very  scantly  reflected.  Life  had  been  for 
him  an  open  game,  and  he  had  played  for  high  stakes. 
He  had  finally  won  and  had  carried  off  his  winnings; 
and  now  what  was  he  to  do  with  them  ?  He  was  a 
man  to  whom,  sooner  or  later,  the  question  was  sure 
to  present  itself,  and  the  answer  to  it  belongs  to  oui 
story.  A  vague  sense  that  more  answers  were  pos- 
.*  27 


THE  AMERICAN 

sible  than  his  philosophy  had  hitherto  dreamt  of  had 
already  taken  possession  of  him,  and  it  seemed  softly 
and  agreeably  to  deepen  as  he  lounged  in  this  rich 
corner  of  Paris  with  his  friend. 

"I  must  confess,"  he  presently  went  on,  "that  1 
don't  here  at  all  feel  my  value.  My  remarkable  talents 
seem  of  no  use.  It's  as  if  I  were  as  simple  as  a  little 
child,  and  as  if  a  little  child  might  take  me  by  the 
hand  and  lead  me  about." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  your  little  child,"  said  Tristram  jovi- 
ally; "I'll  take  you  by  the  hand.  Trust  yourself  to 


me." 


"I'm  a  grand  good  worker,"  Newman  continued, 
"but  I've  come  abroad  to  amuse  myself;  though  I 
doubt  if  I  very  well  know  how." 

"Oh,  that's  easily  learned." 

"Well,  I  may  perhaps  learn  it,  but  I  'm  afraid  I  shall 
never  do  it  by  rote.  I  've  the  best  will  in  the  world 
about  it,  but  my  genius  does  n't  lie  in  that  direction. 
Besides,"  Newman  pursued,  "I  don't  want  to  work 
at  pleasure,  any  more  than  ever  1  played  at  work. 
I  want  to  let  myself,  let  everything  go.  I  feel  coarse 
and  loose  and  I  should  like  to  spend  six  months  as 
I  am  now,  sitting  under  a  tree  and  listening  to  a  band. 
There's  only  one  thing:  I  want  to  hear  some  first- 
class  music." 

"First-class  music  and  first-class  pictures?  Lordv 
what  refined  tastes!  You  've  what  my  wife  calls  a  rare 
mind.  1  have  n't  a  bit.  But  we  can  find  something 
better  for  you  to  do  than  to  sit  under  a  tree.  To  begin 
with,  you  must  come  to  the  club." 

"What  club?" 

28 


THE  AMERICAN 

"The  Occidental.  You'll  see  all  the  Americans 
there;  all  the  best  of  them  at  least.  Of  course  you 
play  poker  ?" 

44 Oh,  I  say/'  cried  Newman,  with  energy,  "you're 
not  going  to  lock  me  up  in  a  club  and  stick  me  down 
at  a  card-table!  I  have  n't  come  all  this  way  for 
that." 

"What  the  deuce  then  have  you  come  for?  You 
were  glad  enough  to  play  poker  in  Saint  Louis,  I  re- 
collect, when  you  cleaned  me  out." 

"  I  've  come  to  see  Europe,  to  get  the  best  out  of  it 
I  can.  I  want  to  see  all  the  great  things  and  do  what 
the  best  people  do." 

"The  'best'  people?  Much  obliged.  You  set  me 
down  then  as  one  of  the  worst  ?" 

Newman  was  sitting  sidewise  in  his  chair,  his  elbow 
on  the  back  and  his  head  leaning  on  his  hand.  With- 
out moving  he  played  a  while  at  his  companion  his 
dry,  guarded,  half-inscrutable  and  yet  altogether 
good-natured  smile.  "Introduce  me  to  your  wife!" 

Tristram  bounced  about  on  his  seat.  "Upon  my 
word  I  '11  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  She  does  n't  want 
any  help  to  turn  up  her  nose  at  me,  nor  do  you 
either." 

"I  don't  turn  up  my  nose  at  you,  my  dear  fellow; 
nor  at  any  one  nor  anything.  J  'm  not  proud,  I  assure 
you  I  'm  not  proud.  That's  why  I  'm  willing  to  takt 
example  by  the  best." 

"  Well,  if  I  'm  not  the  rose,  as  they  say  here,  I  've 
lived  near  it.    I  can  show  you  some  rare  minds  too. 
Do  you  know  General  Packard  ?  Do  you  know  C.  P, 
Hatch  ?  Do  you  know  Miss  Kitty  Upjohn  ?" 
v    20 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  make  their  acquaintance.  I 
want  to  cultivate  society." 

Tristram  seemed  restless  and  suspicious;  he  eyed 
his  friend  askance,  and  then,  "What  are  you  up  to, 
anyway?"  he  demanded.  "Are  you  going  to  write 
a  heavy  hook  ?" 

Christopher  Newman  twisted  one  end  of  his  mous- 
tache in  silence  and  finally  made  answer.  "One  day, 
a  couple  of  months  ago,  something  very  curious  hap- 
pened to  me.  I  had  come  on  to  New  York  on  some 
important  business;  it's  too  long  and  too  low  a  story 
to  tell  you  now  —  a  question  of  getting  in  ahead  of 
another  party  on  a  big  transaction  and  on  informa- 
tion that  was  all  my  own.  This  other  party  had  once 
played  off  on  me  one  of  the  clever  meannesses  the 
feeling  of  which  works  in  a  man  like  strong  poison.  I 
owed  him  a  good  one,  the  best  one  he  was  ever  to  have 
got  in  his  life,  and  as  his  chance  here  —  for  he  was 
after  it,  but  on  the  wrong  tip  —  would  have  been  a 
remarkably  sweet  thing,  a  matter  of  half  a  million,  I 
saw  my  way  to  show  him  the  weight  of  my  hand.  The 
good  it  was  going  to  do  me,  you  see,  to  feel  it  come 
down  on  him!  I  jumped  into  a  hack  and  went  about 
my  business,  and  it  was  in  this  hack — this  immortal 
historical  hack  —  that  the  curious  thing  I  speak  of 
occurred.  It  was  a  hack  like  any  other,  only  a  trifle 
dirtier,  with  a  greasy  line  along  the  top  of  the  drab 
cushions,  as  if  it  had  been  used  for  a  great  many 
Irish  funerals.  It's  possible  I  took  a  nap;  I  had  been 
travelling  all  night  and,  though  I  was  excited  with  my 
errand,  I  felt  the  want  of  sleep.  At  all  events  1  woke 
up  suddenly,  from  a  sleep  or  from  a  kind  of  reverie, 

30 


THE  AMERICAN 

with  the  most  extraordinary  change  of  heart  —  a  mor- 
tal disgust  for  the  whole  proposition.  It  came  upon 
me  like  that!"  — and  he  snapped  his  fingers  —  "as 
abruptly  as  an  old  wound  that  begins  to  ache.  I 
could  n't  tell  the  meaning  of  it;  I  only  realised  I  had 
turned  against  myself  worse  than  against  the  man 
I  wanted  to  smash.  The  idea  of  not  coming  by  that 
half-million  in  that  particular  way,  of  letting  it  utterly 
slide  and  scuttle  and  never  hearing  of  it  again,  became 
the  one  thing  to  save  my  life  from  a  sudden  danger. 
And  all  this  took  place  quite  independently  of  my  will, 
and  I  sat  watching  it  as  if  it  were  a  play  at  the  theatre. 
I  could  feel  it  going  on  inside  me.  You  may  depend 
upon  it  that  there  are  things  going  on  inside  us  that  we 
understand  mighty  little  about." 

" Jupiter,  you  make  my  flesh  creep!"  cried  Tris- 
tram. "And  while  you  sat  in  your  hack  watching  the 
play,  as  you  call  it,  the  other  man  looked  in  and 
collared  your  half-million?" 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  I  hope  so,  poor  brute, 
but  I  never  found  out.  We  pulled  up  in  front  of  the 
place  I  was  going  to  in  Wall  Street,  but  I  sat  still  in 
the  carriage,  and  at  last  the  driver  scrambled  down 
off  his  seat  to  see  whether  his  hack  had  n't  turned 
into  a  hearse.  I  could  n't  have  got  out  any  more  than 
if  I  had  been  a  corpse.  What  was  the  matter  with 
me  ?  Momentary  brain-collapse,  you  '11  say.  What 
I  wanted  to  get  out  of  was  Wall  Street.  I  told  the  man 
to  drive  to  the  Brooklyn  ferry  and  cross  over.  When 
we  were  over  I  told  him  to  drive  me  out  into  the  coun- 
try. As  I  had  told  him  originally  to  drive  for  dear  life 
down  town,  I  suppose  he  thought  I  had  lost  my  wits 

3* 


THE  AMERICAN 

on  the  way.  Perhaps  I  had,  but  in  that  case  my  sacri- 
fice  of  them  has  become,  in  another  way,  my  biggest 
stroke  of  business.  [  spent  the  morning  looking  at  the 
first  green  leaves  on  Long  Island.  I  had  been  so  hot 
that  it  seemed  as  if  I  should  never  be  cool  enough 
again.  As  for  the  damned  old  money,  I  Ve  enough, 
already,  not  to  miss  it  —  you  see  how  that  spoils  my 
beauty.  I  seemed  to  feel  a  new  man  under  my  old 
skin;  at  all  events  I  longed  for  a  new  world.  When 
you  want  a  thing  so  very  badly  you  probably  had  bet- 
ter have  it  an^l  ~ee.  I  did  n't  understand  my  case  in 
the  least,  but  gave  the  poor  beast  the  bridle  and  let 
him  find  his  way.  As  soon  as  I  could  get  out  of  har- 
ness I  sailed  for  Europe.  That's  how  I  come  to  be 
sitting  here." 

"You  ought  to  have  bought  up  that  hack,"  said 
Tristram;  "it  is  n't  a  safe  vehicle  to  have  about.  And 
you  've  really  wound  up  and  sold  out  then  ?  you  've 
formally  retired  from  business?" 

"Well,  I'm  not  at  present  transacting  any  —  on 
any  terms.  There  '11  be  plenty  to  be  done  again  if  I 
don't  hold  out,  but  I  shall  hold  out  as  long  as  possible. 
I  dare  say,  however,  that  a  twelvemonth  hence  the 
uncanny  operation  will  be  repeated  in  the  opposite 
sense  and  the  pendulum  swing  back  again.  I  shall 
be  sitting  in  a  gondola  or  on  a  dromedary,  or  on 
a  cushion  at  the  feet  of  Beauty,  and  all  of  a  sudden 
I  shall  want  to  clear  out.  But  for  the  present  I  'm 
perfectly  free.  I  Ve  even  arranged  that  I  'm  to  receive 
no  business  letters." 

"Oh,  it's  a  real  caprice  de  prince"  said  Tristram. 
"1  back  out;  a  poor  devil  like  me  can't  help  you  to 

32 


THE  AMERICAN 

spend  such  very  magnificent  leisure  as  that.  You 
should  get  introduced  to  the  crowned  heads." 

Newman  considered  a  moment  and  then  with  all  his 
candour,  "How  does  one  do  itf"  he  asked. 

"Come,  I  like  that!"  cried  Tristram.  "It  shows 
you're  in  earnest." 

"Of  course  ['m  in  earnest.  Did  n't  I  say  I  wanted 
the  best  ?  I  know  the  best  can't  be  had  for  mere 
money,  but  I  'm  willing  to  take  a  good  deal  of  trouble." 

"You're  not  too  shrinking,  hey?" 

"  I  have  n't  the  least  idea  —  I  must  see.  I  want  the 
biggest  kind  of  entertainment  a  man  can  get.  People, 
places,  art,  nature,  everything!  I  want  to  see  the 
tallest  mountains,  and  the  bluest  lakes,  and  the  finest 
pictures,  and  the  handsomest  churches,  and  the  most 
celebrated  men,  and  the  most  elegant  women." 

"Settle  down  in  Paris  then.  There  are  no  moun- 
tains that  [  know  of,  higher  than  Montmartre,  and 
the  only  lake 's  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  not  par- 
ticularly blue.  But  there's  everything  else:  plenty  of 
pictures  and  churches,  no  end  of  celebrated  men,  and 
several  elegant  women." 

"But  I  can't  settle  down  in  Paris  at  this  season,  just 
as  summer's  coming  on." 

"Oh,  for  the  summer  go  right  up  to  Trouville." 

"And  what  may  Trouville  be?" 

"  Well,  a  sort  of  French  Newport  —  as  near  as  they 
can  come.  All  the  Americans  go." 

"Is  it  anywhere  near  the  Alps?" 

"About  as  near  as  Newport  to  the  Rocky  Moun- 


tains." 


Oh,  I  want  to  see  Mont  Blanc,"  said  Newman* 
33 


THE  AMERICAN 

"and  Amsterdam,  and  the  Rhine,  and  a  lot  of  places, 
Venice  in  particular.   I  've  grand  ideas  for  Venice." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Tristram,  rising,  "I  see  T  shall  have 
to  introduce  you  to  my  wife.  She'll  have  grand  ideal 
foryoul" 


Ill 


HE  performed  that  ceremony  the  following  day, 
when,  by  appointment,  Christopher  Newman  went 
to  dine  with  him.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tristram  lived 
behind  one  of  those  chalk-coloured  facades  which 
decorate  with  their  pompous  sameness  the  broad 
avenues  distributed  by  Baron  Haussmann  over  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  Their  apart- 
ment was  rich  in  the  modern  conveniences,  and  Tris- 
tram lost  no  time  in  calling  his  visitor's  attention  to 
their  principal  household  treasures,  the  thick-scattered 
gas-lamps  and  the  frequent  furnace-holes.  "When- 
ever you  feel  homesick,"  he  said,  "you  must  come 
right  up  here.  We'll  stick  you  down  before  a  register, 
under  a  good  big  burner,  and  — " 

"And  you'll  soon  get  over  your  homesickness," 
said  Mrs.  Tristram. 

Her  husband  stared;  this  lady  often  had  a  tone 
that  defied  any  convenient  test;  he  could  n't  tell  for 
his  life  to  whom  her  irony  might  be  directed.  The 
truth  is  that  circumstances  had  done  much  to  culti- 
vate in  Mrs.  Tristram  the  need  for  any  little  intel- 
lectual luxury  she  could  pick  up  by  the  way.  Her 
taste  on  many  points  differed  from  that  of  her  hus- 
band; and  though  she  made  frequent  concessions 
to  the  dull  small  fact  that  he  had  married  her  it 
must  be  confessed  that  her  reserves  were  not  always 
muffled  in  pink  gauze.  They  were  founded  upon  th« 

35 


THE  AMERICAN 

vague  project  of  her  some  day  affirming  herself  in 
her  totality;  to  which  end  she  was  in  advance  getting 
herself  together,  building  herself  high,  enquiring,  in 
short,  into  her  dimensions. 

It  should  be  added,  without  delay,  to  anticipate 
misconception,  that  if  she  was  thus  saving  herself 
up  it  was  yet  not  to  cover  the  expense  of  any  fore- 
seen outlay  of  that  finest  part  of  her  substance  that 
was  known  to  her  tacitly  as  her  power  of  passion. 
She  had  a  very  plain  face  and  was  entirely  without 
illusions  as  to  her  appearance.  She  had  taken  its 
measure  to  a  hair's  breadth,  she  knew  the  worst  and 
the  best,  she  had  accepted  herself.  It  had  not  been 
indeed  without  a  struggle.  As  a  mere  mortified 
maiden  she  had  spent  hours  with  her  back  to  her 
mirror,  crying  her  eyes  out;  and  later  she  had,  from 
desperation  and  bravado,  adopted  the  habit  of  pro- 
claiming herself  the  most  ill-favoured  of  women, 
in  order  that  she  might  —  as  in  common  politeness 
was  inevitable  —  be  contradicted  and  reassured. 
It  was  since  she  had  come  to  live  in  Europe  that  she 
had  begun  to  take  the  matter  philosophically.  Her 
observation,  acutely  exercised  here,  had  suggested 
to  her  that  a  woman's  social  service  resides  not  in 
what  she  is  but  in  what  she  appears,  and  that  in  the 
labyrinth  of  appearances  she  may  always  make 
others  lose  their  clue  if  she  only  keeps  her  own.  She 
had  encountered  so  many  women  who  pleased  with- 
out beauty  that  she  began  to  believe  she  had  discov- 
ered her  refuge.  She  had  once  heard  an  enthusiastic 
musician,  out  of  patience  with  a  gifted  bungler,  de- 
clare that  a  fine  voice  is  really  an  obstacle  to  sing- 


THE  AMERICAN 

ing  properly;  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  it  might 
perhaps  be  equally  true  that  a  beautiful  face  is  an 
obstacle  to  the  acquisition  of  charming  manners.  Mrs. 
Tristram  then  undertook  to  persuade  by  grace,  and 
she  brought  to  the  task  no  small  ingenuity. 

How  well  she  would  have  succeeded  I  am  unable 
to  say;  unfortunatel)  she  broke  off  in  the  middle. 
Her  own  excuse  was  the  want  of  encouragement  in 
her  immediate  circle.  But  she  had  presumably  not 
a  real  genius  for  the  charming  art,  or  she  would  have 
pursued  it  for  itself.  The  poor  lady  was  after  all 
incomplete.  She  fell  back  upon  the  harmonies  of 
dress,  which  she  thoroughly  understood,  and  con- 
tented herself  with  playing  in  its  lock  that  ke^  to 
the  making  of  impressions.  She  lived  in  Paris, 
which  she  pretended  to  detest,  because  it  was  only 
in  Paris  that  one  could  find  things  to  exactly  suit 
one's  complexion.  Besides,  out  of  Paris  it  was  al- 
ways more  or  less  of  a  trouble  to  get  ten-button 
gloves.  When  she  railed  at  this  serviceable  city  and 
you  asked  her  where  she  would  prefer  to  reside  she 
returned  some  very  unexpected  answer.  She  would 
say  in  Copenhagen  or  in  Barcelona;  having,  while 
making  the  tour  of  Europe,  spent  a  couple  of  days 
at  each  of  these  places.  On  the  whole,  with  her 
poetic  furbelows  and  her  misshapen,  intelligent  little 
face,  she  was,  when  known,  a  figure  to  place,  in 
the  great  gallery  of  the  wistful,  somewhere  apart. 
She  was  naturally  timid,  and  if  she  had  been  born 
a  beauty  she  would  (content  with  it)  probably  have 
taken  no  risks.  At  present  she  was  both  reckless 
and  diffident;  extremely  reserved  sometimes  with  her 

37 


THE  AMERICAN 

friends  and  strangely  expansive  with  strangers.  She 
overlooked  her  husband;  overlooked  him  too  much, 
for  she  had  been  perfectly  at  liberty  not  to  marry 
him.  She  had  been  in  love  with  a  clever  man  who 
had  eventually  slighted  her,  and  she  had  married 
a  fool  in  the  hope  that  the  keener  personage,  re- 
flecting on  it,  would  conclude  that  she  had  had  no 
appreciation  of  his  keenness  and  that  he  had  flattered 
her  in  thinking  her  touched.  Restless,  discontented, 
visionary,  without  personal  ambitions  but  with  a 
certain  avidity  of  imagination,  she  was  interesting 
from  this  sense  she  gave  of  her  looking  for  her  ideals 
by  a  lamp  of  strange  and  fitful  flame.  She  was  full  — 
both  for  good  and  for  ill  —  of  beginnings  that  came  to 
nothing;  but  she  had  nevertheless,  morally,  a  spark 
of  the  sacred  fire. 

Newman  was  fond,  in  all  circumstances,  of  the 
society  of  women;  and  now  that  he  was  out  of  his 
native  element  and  deprived  of  his  habitual  interests 
he  turned  to  it  for  compensation.  He  took  a  great 
fancy  to  Mrs.  Tristram;  she  frankly  repaid  it,  and 
after  their  first  meeting  he  passed  a  great  many 
hours  in  her  drawing-room.  Two  or  three  long 
talks  had  made  them  fast  friends.  Newman's  manner 
with  women  was  peculiar,  and  it  required  some 
diligence  on  a  lady's  part  to  discover  that  he  admired 
her.  He  had  no  gallantry  in  the  usual  sense  of  the 
term;  no  compliments,  no  graces,  no  speeches. 
Fond  enough  of  a  large  pleasantry  in  his  dealings 
with  men,  he  never  found  himself  on  a  sofa  beside 
a  member  of  the  softer  sex  without  feeling  that  such 
situations  appealed,  like  beautiful  views,  or  cele- 

38 


THE  AMERICAN 

brated  operas,  or  line  portraits,  or  handsome  "sets" 
of  the  classics,  or  even  elegant  "show"  cemeteries, 
to  his  earnest  side.  He  was  not  shy  and,  so  far  as 
awkwardness  proceeds  from  a  struggle  with  shyness, 
was  not  awkward:  grave,  attentive,  submissive, 
often  silent,  he  was  simply  swimming  in  a  sort  ci 
rapture  of  respect.  This  emotion  was  not  at  all 
theoretic,  it  was  not  even  in  a  high  degree  romantic; 
he  had  thought  very  little  about  the  "position"  of 
women,  and  he  was  not  familiar,  either  sympathetic- 
ally or  otherwise,  with  the  image  of  a  President 
in  petticoats.  His  attitude  was  simply  the  flower 
of  his  general  good-nature  and  a  part  of  his  in- 
stinctive and  genuinely  democratic  assumption  of 
every  one's  right  to  lead  an  easy  life.  If  a  shaggy 
pauper  had  a  right  to  bed  and  board  and  wages  and 
a  vote,  women,  of  course,  who  were  weaker  than 
paupers,  and  whose  physical  tissue  was  in  itself  an 
appeal,  should  be  maintained,  sentimentally,  at  the 
public  expense.  Newman  was  willing  to  be  taxed 
for  this  purpose,  largely,  in  proportion  to  his  means. 
Moreover  many  of  the  common  traditions  with 
regard  to  women  were  with  him  fresh  personal  im- 
pressions. He  had  never  read  a  page  of  printed 
romance. 

He  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  listening  to  advice 
from  Mrs.  Tristram;  advice,  it  must  be  added,  for 
which  he  had  never  asked.  He  would  have  been 
incapable  of  asking  for  it,  inasmuch  as  he  had  no 
perception  of  difficulties  and  consequently  no  curi- 
osity about  remedies.  The  complex  Parisian  world 
about  him  seemed  a  very  simple  affair;  it  was  an 

39 


THE  AMERICAN 

immense,  surprising  spectacle,  but  it  neither  in- 
flamed his  imagination  nor  irritated  his  curiosity. 
He  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looked  on  good- 
humouredly,  desired  to  miss  nothing  important, 
observed  a  great  many  things  in  detail,  and  never 
reverted  to  himself.  Mrs.  Tristram's  "advice" 
was  a  part  of  the  show  and  a  more  entertaining 
element  of  her  free  criticism  than  any  other.  He 
enjoyed  her  talking  about  him  —  it  seemed  a  part 
of  her  beautiful  culture  ;  but  he  never  made  an 
application  of  anything  she  said  or  remembered 
it  when  he  was  away  from  her.  For  herself,  she 
appropriated  him :  he  was  the  most  interesting 
thing  she  had  had  to  think  about  for  many  a  month. 
She  wished  to  do  something  with  him  —  she  hardly 
knew  what.  There  was  so  much  of  him;  he  was  so 
rich  and  robust,  so  easy,  friendly,  well-disposed, 
that  he  kept  her  imagination  constantly  on  the  alert. 
For  the  present  the  only  thing  she  could  do  was  to 
like  him.  She  told  him  he  was  beyond  everything 
a  child  of  nature,  but  she  repeated  it  so  often  that  it 
could  have  been  but  a  term  of  endearment.  She  led 
him  about  with  her,  introduced  him  to  fifty  people, 
took  extreme  satisfaction  in  her  conquest.  Newman 
accepted  every  proposal,  shook  hands  universally 
and  promiscuously,  and  seemed  equally  unversed 
in  trepidation  and  in  "  cheek."  Tom  Tristram  com- 
plained of  his  wife's  rapacity,  declaring  he  could 
never  have  a  clear  five  minutes  with  his  friend.  If 
he  had  known  how  things  were  going  to  turn  out  he 
never  would  have  brought  him  to  the  Avenue  d'lena, 
The  two  men  had  formerly  not  been  intimate,  but 

40 


THE  AMERICAN 

Newman  recalled  his  earlier  impression  of  his  host 
and  did  Mrs.  Tristram,  who  had  by  no  means  taken 
him  into  her  confidence,  but  whose  secret  he  pre- 
sently discovered,  the  justice  to  admit  that  her 
husband  had  somehow  found  means  to  be  degenerate 
without  the  iridescence  of  decay.  People  said  he  was 
veiy  sociable,  but  this  was  as  much  a  matter  of 
course  as  for  a  dipped  sponge  to  expand;  and  ii  was 
a  sociability  affirmed,  on  its  anecdotic  side,  too 
much  at  the  expense  of  those  possible  partakers 
who  were  not  there  to  guard  their  interest  in  it.  He 
was  patient  at  poker;  he  was  infallible  upon  the 
names  and  the  other  attributes  of  all  the  cocottes ; 
his  criticism  of  cookery,  his  comparative  view  of  the 
great  "years"  of  champagne,  enjoyed  the  authority 
of  the  last  word.  And  then  he  was  idle,  spiritless, 
sensual,  snobbish.  He  irritated  our  friend  by  the 
tone  of  his  allusions  to  their  native  country,  and 
Newman  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  wherein  such 
a  country,  as  a  whole,  could  fall  short  of  Mr.  Tris- 
tram's stomach.  He  had  never  been  a  very  systematic 
patriot,  but  it  vexed  him  to  see  the  United  States 
treated  as  little  better  than  a  vulgar  smell  in  his 
friend's  nostril,  and  he  finally  spoke  up  for  them 
quite  as  if  it  had  been  Fourth  of  July,  proclaiming 
that  any  American  who  ran  them  down  ought  to  be 
carried  home  in  irons  and  compelled  to  live  in  Boston 
—  which  for  Newman  was  putting  it  very  vindio 
tively.  Tristram  was  a  comfortable  man  to  snub; 
he  bore  no  malice  and  he  continued  to  insist  on 
Newman's  finishing  his  evenings  at  the  Occidental 
Club.  The  latter  dined  several  times  in  the  Avenue 

41 


THE  AMERICAN 

d'lena,  and  his  host  always  proposed  an  early  ad- 
journment to  this  institution.  Mrs.  Tristram  pro- 
tested, declaring  as  promptly  that  her  husband  ex- 
hausted a  low  cunning  in  trying  to  displease  her. 

"Oh  no,  I  never  try,  my  love,"  he  answered;  "I 
know  you  loathe  me  quite  enough  when  I  take  my 
chance."  But  their  visitor  hated  to  see  a  married 
couple  on  these  terms,  and  he  was  sure  one  or 
other  of  them  must  be  very  unhappy.  Yet  he  knew 
it  was  not  Tristram.  The  lady  had  a  balcony  before 
her  windows,  upon  which,  during  the  June  evenings, 
she  was  fond  of  sitting,  and  Newman  used  frankly 
to  say  that  he  preferred  the  balcony  to  the  club.  It 
had  a  fringe  of  perfumed  plants  in  tubs  and  enabled 
you  to  look  up  the  broad  street  and  see  the  Arch  of 
Triumph  vaguely  massing  its  heroic  sculptures  in  the 
summer  starlight.  Sometimes  he  kept  his  promise 
of  following  Mr.  Tristram  in  half  an  hour  to  the 
Occidental  and  sometimes  forgot  it.  His  companion 
asked  him  a  great  many  questions  about  himself, 
but  on  this  subject  he  was  an  indifferent  talker.  He 
was  not  "subjective,"  though  when  he  felt  her 
interest  sincere  he  made  a  real  effort  to  meet  it.  He 
told  her  many  things  he  had  done,  and  regaled  her 
with  pictures  of  that  "nature"  as  the  child  of  which 
he  figured  for  her;  she  herself  was  from  Philadel- 
phia and,  with  her  eight  years  in  Paris,  talked  of 
herself  as  a  languid  Oriental.  But  some,  other  person 
was  always  the  hero  of  the  tale,  though  by  no  means 
always  to  his  advantage;  and  the  states  of  Newman's 
own  spirit  were  but  scantily  chronicled.  She  had  an 
especial  wish  to  know  whether  he  had  ever  beeu 

4-2 


THE  AMERICAN 

in  love  —  seriously,  passionately  —  and,  failing  to 
gather  any  satisfaction  from  his  allusions,  at  last 
closely  pressed  him.  He  hesitated  a  while,  but  finally 
said  "Hang  it  then,  no!"  She  declared  that  she  was 
delighted  to  hear  it,  as  it  confirmed  her  private  con- 
viction that  he  was  a  man  of  no  real  feeling. 

"Is  that  so  ?"  he  asked  very  gravely.  "But  how 
do  you  recognise  a  man  of  real  feeling  ? " 

"I  can't  make  out,"  said  Mrs.  Tristram,  "whether 
you're  very  simple  or  very  deep." 

"I'm  very  deep.    That's  a  fact." 

"  I  believe  that  if  I  were  to  tell  you  with  a  certain 
air  that  you're  as  cold  as  a  fish  you  would  implicitly 
believe  me." 

"A  certain  air?"  Newman  echoed.  "Well,  try 
your  air  and  see." 

"You'd  believe  me,  but  you  would  n't  care,"  said 
Mrs.  Tristram. 

"You've  got  it  all  wrong.  I  should  care  immensely, 
but  I  should  n  't  believe  you.  The  fact  is  I  have 
never  had  time  to  'feel'  things  so  very  beautifully. 
I  've  had  to  do  them,  had  to  make  myself  felt." 

"Oh,  I  can  imagine  indeed  that  you  may  have 
sometimes  done  that  tremendously." 

"Yes,  there's  no  mistake  about  that." 

"When  you're  in  one  of  your  furies  it  can't  be 
pleasant." 

"Ah,  I  don't  have  to  get  into  a  fury  to  do  it." 

"I  don't,  nevertheless,  see  you  always  as  you  are 
now.  You've  something  or  other  behind,  beneath. 
You  get  harder  or  you  get  softer.  You're  more 
displeased  — or  you're  more  pleased." 

•*  43 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  Well,  a  man  of  any  sense  does  n't  lay  his  plans 
to  be  angry,"  said  Newman,  "and  it's  in  fact  so 
long  since  I've  been  displeased  that  I've  quite 
forgotten  it." 

"I  don't  believe,"  she  returned  "that  you're 
never  angry.  A  man  ought  to  be  angry  sometimes, 
and  you're  neither  good  enough  nor  bad  enough 
always  to  keep  your  temper." 

"I  lose  it  perhaps  every  five  years." 

"The  time's  coming  round  then,"  said  his  hostess. 
"  Before  I  've  known  you  six  months  I  shall  see  you 
in  a  magnificent  rage." 

"Do  you  mean  to  put  me  into  one?" 

"  I  should  n't  be  sorry.  You  take  things  too  coolly. 
It  quite  exasperates  me.  And  then  you're  too  happy. 
You  've  what  must  be  the  most  agreeable  thing  in  the 
world  —  the  consciousness  of  having  bought  your 
pleasure  beforehand,  having  paid  for  it  in  advance. 
You  've  not  a  day  of  reckoning  staring  you  in  the  face. 
Your  reckonings  are  over." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I'm  happy,"  said  Newman 
almost  pensively. 

"You've  been  odiously  successful." 

"Successful  in  copper,"  he  recalled,  "but  very 
mixed  in  other  mining  ventures.  And  I've  had  to 
take  quite  a  back  seat  on  oil." 

"It's  very  disagreeable  to  know  how  Americans 
have  come  by  their  money,"  his  companion  sighed. 
"Now,  at  all  events,  you've  the  world  before  you. 
You've  only  to  enjoy." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I'm  all  right,"  said  Newman, 
"Only  I'm  tired  of  having  it  thrown  up  at  me. 

44 


THE  AMERICAN 

Besides,  there  are  several  drawbacks.  I  don't  come 
up  to  my  own  standard  of  culture." 

"One  does  n't  expect  it  of  you,"  Mrs.  Tristram 
answered.  Then  in  a  moment:  "Besides,  you  do 
come  up.  You  are  up!" 

"Well,  I  mean  to  have  a  good  time,  wherever  I 
am,"  said  Newman.  "I  find  I  take  notice  as  I  go, 
and  I  guess  I  shan't  have  missed  much  by  the  time 
I've  done.  I  feel  something  under  my  ribs  here," 
he  added  in  a  moment,  "that  I  can't  explain  —  a 
sort  of  strong  yearning,  a  desire  to  stretch  out  and 
haul  in." 

"Bravo!"  Mrs.  Tristram  cried;  "that's  what  I 
want  to  hear  you  say.  You're  the  great  Western 
Barbarian,  stepping  forth  in  his  innocence  and 
might,  gazing  a  while  at  this  poor  corrupt  old  world 
and  then  swooping  down  on  it." 

"Oh  come,"  Newman  protested;  "I'm  not  an 
honest  barbarian  either,  by  a  good  deal.  I'm  a 
great  fall-off  from  him.  I  've  seen  honest  barbarians, 
I  know  what  they  are." 

"I  don't  mean  you're  a  Comanche  chief  or  that 
you  wear  a  blanket  and  feathers.  There  are  different 
shades." 

"  I  have  the  instincts  —  have  them  deeply  —  if 
I  have  n't  the  forms  of  a  high  old  civilisation," 
Newman  wenron.  "I  stick  to  that.  If  you  don't 
believe  it  I  should  like  to  prove  it  to  you." 

Mrs.  Tristram  was  silent  a  while.  "I  should  like 
to  make  you  prove  it,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  should 
like  to  put  you  in  a  difficult  place." 

"Well,  put  me!"  said  Newman. 

^  45 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  Vous  ne  doutez  de  rien!"  his  companion  rejoined. 

"Oh,"  he  insisted,  "I've  a  very  good  opinion  of 
myself." 

"  I  wish  I  could  put  it  to  the  test.  Give  me  time 
and  I  will."  And  Mrs.  Tristram  remained  silent  a 
minute,  as  if  trying  to  keep  her  pledge.  It  did  n't 
appear  that  evening  that  she  succeeded;  but  as  he 
was  rising  to  take  his  leave  she  passed  suddenly, 
as  she  was  very  apt  to  do,  from  the  tone  of  ingenious 
banter  to  that  of  almost*  tremulous  sympathy. 
"Speaking  seriously,"  she  said,  "I  believe  in  you, 
Mr.  Newman.  You  flatter  my  latent  patriotism." 

"Your  latent—?" 

"Deep  within  me  the  eagle  shrieks,  and  I've 
known  my  heart  at  times  to  bristle  with  more 
feathers  than  my  head.  It  would  take  too  long  to 
explain,  and  you  probably  would  n't  understand. 
Besides,  you  might  take  it  —  really  you  might  take 
it  —  for  a  declaration.  Yet  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
you  personally;  the  question  is  of  what  you  almost 
unconsciously  represent.  Fortunately  you  don't  know 
all  that,  or  your  conceit  would  increase  insuffer- 
ably." And  then  as  Newman  stood  wondering  what 
this  great  quantity  might  be:  "Forgive  all  my  med- 
dlesome chatter  and  forget  my  advice.  It's  very  silly 
in  me  to  undertake  to  tell  you  what  to  do.  When 
you're  embarrassed  do  as  you  think  best,  and  you'll 
do  very  well.  When  you're  in  a  difficulty  judge 
for  yourself.  Only  let  it  then  be  all  you." 

"I  shall  remember  everything  you  've  told  me."  he 
made  answer.  "There  are  so  many  twists  and  turns 
over  here,  so  many  forms  and  ceremonies  —  " 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  Forms  and  ceremonies  are  what  I  mean  of 
course." 

"Ah,  but  I  don't  want  not  to  take  account  of 
them,"  he  declared.  "  Have  n't  I  as  good  a  right  as 
another  ?  They  don't  scare  me,  and  you  need  it't 
give  me  leave  to  ignore  them.  I  want  to  know  all 
about  'em." 

"That's  not  what  I  mean.  I  mean  that  you're 
to  deal  with  them  in  your  own  way.  Settle  delicate 
questions  by  your  own  light.  Cut  the  knot  or  untie 
it,  as  you  choose." 

"  Oh,  if  there 's  ever  a  big  knot,"  he  returned  — 
"and  they  all  seem  knots  of  ribbon  over  here  —  I 
shall  simply  pull  it  off  and  wear  it!" 

The  next  time  he  dined  in  the  Avenue  d'lena  was 
a  Sunday,  a  day  on  which  Mr.  Tristram  left  the 
cards  unshuffled,  so  that  there  was  a  trio  in  the 
evening  on  the  balcony.  The  talk  was  of  many 
things,  and  at  last  Mrs.  Tristram  suddenly  observed 
to  their  visitor  that  it  was  high  time  that  he  should 
take  a  wife. 

"Listen  to  her:  she  has  the  toupet!"  said  Tris- 
tram, who  on  Sunday  evenings  was  always  a  little 
peevish. 

"I  don't  suppose  you've  made  up  your  mind  not 
to  marry?"  Mrs.  Tristram  continued. 

"Heaven  forbid!"  cried  Newman.  "I'm  quite 
viciously  bent  on  it." 

"It's  a  very  easy  mistake,"  said  Tristram;  "and 
when  it  's  made  it's  made." 

"Well  then,"  his  wife  went  on,  "I  suppose  you 
don't  mean  to  wait  till  you're  fifty." 

47 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  'm  in  an  almost  indecent  hurry." 

"  One  would  never  guess  it.  Do  you  expect  a  lady 
to  come  and  propose  to  you  ?" 

"No;  I  'm  willing  to  put  the  case  before  her  myself. 
I  think  a  great  deal  about  it." 

"Tell  me  some  of  your  thoughts." 

"Well,"  said  Newman  slowly,  "I  want  to  marry 
about  as  well  as  you  can." 

"'Well'  in  what  sense?" 

"In  every  sense.    I  shall  be  hard  to  suit." 

"You  must  remember  that,  as  the  French  proverb 
puts  it,  the  finest  girl  in  the  world  can  give  but 
what  she  has." 

"Since  you  ask  me,"  said  Newman,  "let  me  be 
frank  about  it  —  I  want  quite  awfully  to  marry.  It's 
time,  to  begin  with;  before  I  know  it  I  shall  be  forty- 
five.  And  then  I  'm  lonely,  and  I  really  kind  of  pine 
for  a  mate.  There  are  things  for  which  I  want  help. 
But  if  I  marry  now,  so  long  as  I  did  n't  do  it  in  hot 
haste  when  I  was  twenty,  I  must  do  it,  you  see,  with 
my  eyes  open.  I  want  to  set  about  it  rather  grandly. 
1  not  only  want  to  make  no  mistakes,  but  I  want  to 
make  a  great  hit.  I  want  to  take  my  pick.  My  wife 
must  be  a  pure  pearl.  I  've  thought  an  immense  deal 
about  it." 

"Perhaps  you  think  too  much.  The  best  thing  's 
simply  to  fall  in  love." 

"When  I  find  the  woman  who  satisfies  me  I  shall 
rise  to  the  occasion.  My  wife  shall  be  as  satisfied  as 
I  shall." 

"  You  begin  grandly  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Tristram, 
"'There's  a  chance  for  the  pure  pearls!" 


THE  AMERICAN 

"You're  not  fair/'  Newman  presently  broke  out. 
"You  draw  a  fellow  on  and  put  him  off  his  guard  and 
then  you  gibe  at  him." 

"  I  assure  you,"  she  answered,  "that  1  'm  very  seri- 
ous. To  prove  it  I  make  you  a  proposal.  Should  you 
like  me,  as  they  say  here,  to  marry  you  ?" 

"To  hunt  up  a  wife  for  me  ?" 

"She's  already  found.    I'll  bring  you  together." 

"Oh  come,"  said  Tristram,  "we  don't  keep  a 
bureau  de  placement.  He  '11  think  you  want  your  com- 


mission." 


"Present  me  to  a  woman  who  comes  up  to  my 
notion,"  Newman  declared,  "and  I'll  marry  her 
to-morrow." 

"You've  a  strange  tone  about  it,  and  I  don't  quite 
understand  you.  i  did  n't  suppose  you  conld  be  so 
cold-blooded." 

Newman  was  silent  a  while.  "Well,  1  want  a  great 
woman.  I  stick  to  that.  That's  one  thing  I  can  treat 
myself  to,  and  if  it 's  to  be  had  I  mean  to  have  it.  What 
else  have  1  toiled  and  struggled  for  all  these  years  ? 
I've  succeeded,  and  now  what  am  I  to  do  with  my 
success  ?  To  make  it  perfect,  as  I  see  it,  there  must  be 
a  lovely  being  perched  on  the  pile  like  some  shining 
statue  crowning  some  high  monument.  She  must  be 
as  good  as  she's  beautiful  and  as  clever  as  she's  good. 
I  can  give  my  wife  many  things,  so  1  'm  not  afraid  to 
ask  certain  others  myself.  She  shall  have  everything  a 
woman  can  desire;  I  shall  not  even  object  to  her  being 
too  good  for  me.  She  may  be  cleverer  and  wiser  than 
I  can  understand,  and  I  shall  only  be  the  better  pleased. 
I  want,  in  a  word,  the  best  article  in  the  market." 

49 

- 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  a  fellow  all  this  at  the  out- 
set?" Tristram  demanded.  "I've  been  trying  so  tc 
make  you  fond  of  me!" 

"It's  remarkablv  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Tristram 
,"1  like  to  see  a  man  know  his  own  mind/' 

"I've  known  mine  for  a  long  time,"  Newman 
went  on.  "I  made  up  my  mind  tolerably  early  in 
life  that  some  rare  creature  all  one's  own  is  the  best 
kind  of  property  to  hold.  It's  the  greatest  victory 
over  circumstances.  When  I  say  rare  1  mean  rare 
all  through  —  grown  as  a  rarity  and  recognised  as 
one.  It's  a  thing  every  man  has  an  equal  right  to; 
he  may  get  it  if  he  can  get  it.  He  does  n't  have  to  be 
born  with  certain  faculties  on  purpose;  he  needs 
only  to  be  —  well,  whatever  he  really  is.  Then  he 
need  only  use  his  will,  and  such  wits  as  he  can  muster, 
and  go  in." 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  Mrs.  Tristram,  "that  your 
marriage  is  to  be  rather  a  matter  of  heartless  pomp." 

"Well,  it's  certain,"  Newman  granted,  "that  if 
people  notice  my  wife  and  admire  her  I  shall  count 
it  as  part  of  my  success." 

"After  this,"  cried  Mrs.  Tristram,  "speak  of  any 
man's  modesty!" 

"But  none  of  them  will  admire  her  so  much  as  I." 

"  You  really  have  the  imagination  of  greatness." 

He  hesitated  as  if  in  fear  of  her  mockery,  but  he 
kept  it  up, repeating  his  dry  formula:  "  1  want  the  best 
thing  going." 

"And  I  suppose  you've  already  looked  about  you 
a  good  deal." 

"  More  or  less,  according  to  opportunity.0 

50 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  And  you  've  seen  nothing  that  has  tempted  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Newman  half  reluctantly,  "I'm  bound 
to  say  in  honesty  that  I  've  seen  nothing  that  has  come 
up  to  my  idea." 

"You  remind  me  of  the  heroes  of  the  French 
romantic  poets,  Rolla  and  Fortunio  and  all  those 
other  insatiable  gentlemen  for  whom  nothing  in  this 
world  was  handsome  enough.  But  I  see  you  're  in 
earnest,  and  1  should  like  to  help  you,"  Mrs.  Tristram 
wound  up. 

"  Who  the  deuce  is  it,  darling,  that  you're  going  to 
palm  off  upon  him?"  her  husband  asked.  "We 
know  a  good  many  pretty  girls,  thank  goodness,  but 
nobody  to  be  mentioned  in  that  blazing  light." 

"Have  you  any  objections  to  a  foreigner?"  Mrs. 
Tristram  continued,  addressing  their  friend,  who  had 
tilted  back  his  chair  and,  with  his  feet  on  a  bar  of  the 
balcony  railing  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  sat  look- 
ing at  the  stars. 

"No  Irish  need  apply,"  said  Tristram. 

Newman  remained  pensive.  k*  Just  as  a  foreigner, 
no.  I've  no  prejudices." 

" My  dear  fellow,  you've  no  suspicions!"  Tristram 
cried.  "You  don't  know  what  terrible  customers 
these  foreign  women  are;  especially  those  grown,  as 
you  call  it,  for  the  use  of  millionaires.  How  should 
you  like  an  expensive  Circassian  with  a  dagger  in 
her  baggy  trousers  ?" 

Newman  administered  a  vigorous  slap  to  his  knee. 
"I'd  marry  a  Patagonian  if  she  pleased  me." 

"We  had  better  confine  ourselves  to  Europe,"  said 
Mrs.  Tristram.  "The  only  thing  is  then  that  the 

51 


THE  AMERICAN 

young  person  herself  should  square  with  youi   tre- 
mendous standard  ?" 

"  She 's  going  to  offer  you  an  unappreciated  gov- 
erness!" Tristram  groaned. 

"Of  course  I  won't  deny  that,  other  things  being 
equal,  I  should  like  one  of  my  own  countrywomen 
best,"  Newman  pursued.  "We  should  speak  the 
same  language,  and  that  would  be  a  comfort.  But 
I'm  not  afraid  of  any  foreigner  who's  the  best  thing 
in  her  own  country.  Besides,  I  rather  like  the  idea 
of  taking  in  Europe  too.  It  enlarges  the  field  of  selec- 
tion. When  you  choose  from  a  greater  number  you 
can  bring  your  choice  to  a  finer  point." 

"Sardanapalus!"  Tristram  sighed. 

"Well,  you've  come  to  the  right  market,"  New- 
man's hostess  brought  out  after  a  pause.  "I  happen 
to  number  among  my  friends  the  finest  creature  in 
the  world.  Neither  more  nor  less.  I  don't  say  a  very 
charming  person  or  a  very  estimable  woman  or  a  very 
great  beauty:  1  say  simply  the  finest  creature  in  the 
world." 

"I'm  bound  to  say  then,"  cried  Tristram,  "that 
you've  kept  very  quiet  about  her.  Were  you  afraid 
of  me  ?" 

"You've  seen  her,"  said  his  wife,  "but  you've  no 
perception  of  such  quality  as  Claire's." 

"Ah,  her  name  's  Claire  ?   I  give  it  up." 

"Does  your  friend  wish  to  marry?"  Newman 
asked. 

"Not  in  the  least.  It's  for  you  to  make  her  change 
her  mind.  It  won't  be  easy;  she  has  had  one  husband 
and  he  gave  her  a  low  opinion  of  the  species." 

52 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Oh,  she's  a  widow  then  ?" 

"Are  you  already  afraid  ?  She  was  married  at 
eighteen,  by  her  parents,  in  the  French  fashion,  to 
a  man  with  advantages  of  fortune,  but  objectionable, 
detestable,  on  other  grounds,  and  many  years  too  old. 
He  had,  however,  the  discretion  to  die  a  couple  of 
years  afterwards,  and  she's  now  twenty-eight." 

"So  she's  French?" 

"French  by  her  father,  English  by  her  mother. 
She's  really  more  English  than  French,  and  she 
speaks  English  as  well  as  you  or  I  —  or  rather  much 
better.  She  belongs,  as  they  say  here,  to  the  very  top 
of  the  basket.  Her  family,  on  each  side,  is  of  fabulous 
antiquity;  her  mother 's  the  daughter  of  an  English 
Catholic  peer.  Her  father's  dead,  and  since  her 
widowhood  she  has  lived  with  her  mother  and  a 
married  brother.  There's  another  brother,  younger, 
who  I  believe  is  rather  amusing  but  quite  impossible. 
They  have  an  old  hotel  in  the  Rue  de  1'Universite, 
but  their  fortune  's  small  and  they  make,  for  eco- 
nomy's sake,  a  common  household.  When  I  was  a 
girl  of  less  than  fifteen  1  was  put  into  a  convent  here 
for  my  education  while  my  father  made  the  tour  of 
Europe.  It  was  a  fatuous  thing  to  do  with  me,  but  it 
had  the  advantage  that  it  made  me  acquainted  with 
Claire  de  Bellegarde.  She  was  younger  than  1,  yet 
we  became  fast  friends.  1  took  a  tremendous  fancy 
to  her,  and  she  returned  my  adoration  so  far  as  she 
could.  They  kept  such  a  tight  rein  on  her  that  she 
could  do  very  little,  and  when  I  left  the  convent  she 
had  to  give  me  up.  I  was  not  of  her  monde ;  1  'm  not 
now  either,  but  we  sometimes  meet.  They're  terrible 

53 


THE  AMERICAN 

people  —  her  mondc;  all  mounted  upon  stilts  a  mile 
high  and  with  pedigrees  long  in  proportion.   It's  the 
skim  of  the  milk  of  the  old  noblesse.    Did  you  ever 
hear  of  such  a  prehistoric  monster  as  a  Legitimist  or 
an   Ultramontane?      Go   into   Madame   de   Cintre's , 
drawing-room   some  afternoon  at    five  o'clock    and  I 
you'll  see  the  best-preserved  specimens.     I  say  go, 
but  no  one  is  admitted  —  to  intimacy  —  who  can't 
show  good  cause  in  the  form  of  a  family  tree." 

"  And  this  is  the  lady  you  propose  to  me  to  marry  ?" 
asked  Newman.  "  A  lady  I  can't  even  approach  ? " 

44  But  you  said  just  now  that  you  recognised  no 
reasons  against  you." 

Newman  looked  at  Mrs.  Tristram  a  while,  stroking 
his  moustache.  **ls  she  a  very  great  beauty?"  he 
demanded. 

She  hung  fire  a  little.    "No." 

44 Oh  then  it's  no  use— !" 

44 She's  not  a  very  great  beauty,  but  she's  very, 
very  beautiful;  two  quite  different  things.  A  beauty 
has  no  faults  in  her  face;  the  face  of  a  beautiful 
woman  may  have  faults  that  only  deepen  its  charm." 

4*  I  remember  Madame  de  Cintre  now,"  said  Tris- 
tram. 44  She 's  as  plain  as  a  copy  in  a  copy-book  — 
all  round  o's  and  uprights  a  little  slanting.  She  just 
slants  toward  us.  A  man  of  your  large  appetite 
would  swallow  her  down  without  tasting  her." 

"  In  telling  how  little  use  he  has  for  her  my  husband 
sufficiently  describes  her,"  Mrs.  Tristram  pursued. 

"Is  she  good,  is  she  clever  ?"  Newman  asked. 

"She's  perfect!  I  won't  say  more  than  that.  When 
you're  praising  a  person  to  another  who's  to  know 

54 


THE  AMERICAN 

her,  it's  bad  policy  to  go  into  details.  I  won't  exag- 
gerate, I  simply  recommend  her.  Among  all  the 
women  I've  known  she  stands  alone;  she's  of  a 
different  clay." 

"I  should  like  to  see  her,"  said  Newman  simply. 

"I'll  try  to  manage  it.  The  only  way  will  be  to 
invite  her  to  dinner.  T  Ve  never  invited  her  before, 
and  I'm  not  sure  she'll  be  able  to  come.  Her  old 
feudal  countess  of  a  mother  rules  the  family  with  an 
iron  hand  and  allows  her  to  have  no  friends  but  of  her 
own  choosing  and  to  visit  only  in  a  certain  sacred 
circle.  But  I  can  at  least  invite  her." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Tristram  was  interrupted;  a 
servant  stepped  out  upon  the  balcony  and  announced 
that  there  were  visitors  in  the  drawing-room.  When 
she  had  gone  in  to  receive  her  friends  Tom  Tristram 
approached  his  guest. 

"  Don't  put  your  foot  into  this,  my  boy,"  he  said, 
puffing  the  last  whiffs  of  his  cigar.  "There's  nothing 
in  it!" 

Newman  eyed  him  with  oblique  penetration.  "You 
tell  another  story,  eh  ? " 

"I  say  simply  that  Madame  de  Cintre's  a  great 
white  doll  of  a  woman  and  that  she  cultivates  quiet 
haughtiness." 

"Ah,  she's  really  haughty,  eh  ?" 

"  She  looks  at  you  as  if  you  were  so  much  thin  air, 
and  blows  you  away  as  easily." 

"She's  really  proud,  eh?"  Newman  pursued  with 
interest. 

"  Proud  ?   As  proud  as  they  make  'em  over  here." 

"And  not  good-looking?" 

55 


THE  AMERICAN 

Tristram  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "She  leaves  me 
cold.  She's  as  cold  herself  as  a  porcelain  stove,  and 
has  about  as  much  expression.  But  I  must  go  in  and 
amuse  the  company." 

Some  time  elapsed  before  Newman  followed  his 
friends  into  the  drawing-room.  When  he  at  last  joined 
them  there  he  remained  but  a  short  time,  and  during 
this  period  sat  perfectly  silent,  listening  to  a  lady 
to  whom  Mrs.  Tristram  had  straightway  introduced 
him  and  who  treated  him,  without  drawing  breath, 
to  the  full  force  of  an  extraordinarily  high-pitched 
voice.  He  could  but  gaze  and  attend.  Presently  he 
came  to  bid  his  hostess  good-night.  "Who  is  that 
lady?" 

"  Miss  Dora  Finch.   How  do  you  like  her  ?  " 

"Well,  as  I  like  the  gong  that  sounds  for  dinner. 
She's  good  for  a  warning." 

"She's  thought  so  sweet!  Certainly  you  have 
ideas,"  said  Mrs.  Tristram. 

He  hung  about,  but  at  last,  "Don't  forget  about 
your  friend,"  he  said,  "the  lady  of  the  proud  people. 
Do  make  her  come,  and  give  me  good  notice."  And 
with  this  he  departed. 

Some  days  later  he  came  back;  it  was  in  the  after- 
noon. He  found  Mrs.  Tristram  in  her  drawing-room 
and  entertaining  a  visitor,  a  woman  young  and  pretty 
and  dressed  in  white.  The  two  had  risen  and  the 
visitor  was  apparently  taking  leave.  After  Newman 
had  approached  he  received  from  Mrs.  Tristram, 
who  had  turned  to  her  companion,  a  glance  of  the 
most  vivid  significance,  which  he  was  yet  not  imme- 
diately able  to  interpret.  "This  is  a  good  friend  of 

56 


THE  AMERICAN 

ours,  Mr.  Christopher  Newman.  1  Jve  spoken  of  you 
to  him,  and  he  has  an  extreme  desire  to  make  your 
acquaintance.  If  you  had  consented  to  come  and  dine 
1  should  have  offered  him  an  opportunity." 

The  stranger  presented  her  face  with  a  still  bright- 
ness of  kindness.  He  was  not  embarrassed,  for  his 
unconscious  equanimity  was  boundless;  but  as  he 
became  aware  that  this  was  the  proud  and  beautiful 
Madame  de  Cintre,  the  finest  creature  in  the  world, 
the  promised  perfection,  the  proposed  ideal,  he  made 
an  instinctive  movement  to  gather  his  wits  together. 
Through  the  slight  preoccupation  it  produced  he  had 
a  sense  of  a  longish  fair  face  and  of  the  look  of  a  pair 
of  eyes  that  were  both  intense  and  mild. 

"1  should  have  been  most  happy,"  said  Madame 
de  Cintre.  "  Unfortunately,  as  1  have  been  telling 
Mrs.  Tristram,  1  go  next  week  to  the  country." 

Newman  had  made  a  solemn  bow.  "I'm  very  very 
sorry/' 

"Paris  is  really  getting  too  hot,"  Madame  de 
Cintre  added,  taking  her  friend's  hand  again  in  fare- 
well. 

Mrs.  Tristram  seemed  to  have  formed  a  sudden 
and  somewhat  venturesome  resolution,  and  she 
smiled  more  gaily,  as  women  do  when  they  become 
more  earnest.  "  I  want  Mr.  Newman  to  know  you," 
she  said,  dropping  her  head  on  one  side  and  looking 
at  Madame  de  Cintre's  bonnet-ribbons. 

Christopher  Newman  stood  gravely  silent,  and 
his  native  penetration  admonished  him.  Mrs.  Tris- 
tram was  determined  to  force  her  friend  to  address 
him  a  word  of  encouragement  which  should  be  more 

V57 


THE  AMERICAN 

than  one  of  the  common  formulas  of  politeness;  and 
if  she  was  prompted  by  charity  it  was  by  the  charity 
that  begins  at  home.  Madame  de  Cintre  was  her 
dearest  Claire  and  her  especial  admiration;  but 
Madame  de  Cintre  had  found  it  impossible  to  dine 
with  her  and  Madame  de  Cintre  should  for  once  be 
forced  gently  to  render  tribute  to  Mrs.  Tristram. 
"  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure,"  she  said,  looking 
at  Mrs.  Tristram. 

" That's  a  great  deal,"  cried  the  latter,  "for 
Madame  de  Cintre  to  say!" 

44 I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Newman. 
"Mrs.  Tristram  can  speak  better  for  me  than  I  can 
speak  for  myself." 

Madame  de  Cintre  turned  on  him  again  her  soft 
lustre.  "Are  you  for  long  in  Paris  ?" 

"We  shall  keep  him,"  said  Mrs.  Tristram. 

"But  you're  keeping  me!"  And  Madame  de 
Cintre  disengaged  her  hand. 

"A  moment  longer,"  said  Mrs.  Tristram. 

Madame  de  Cintre  looked  at  Newman  again;  this 
time  without  her  smile.  Her  eyes  lingered  a  little. 
"Will  you  come  and  see  rne?" 

Mrs.  Tristram  kissed  her  at  this;  Newman  ac- 
knowledged it  more  formally,  and  she  took  her  de- 
parture. Her  hostess  went  with  her  to  the  door,, 
leaving  Newman  briefly  alone.  Presently  she  re- 
turned, clasping  her  hands  together  and  shaking 
them  at  him.  "  It  was  a  fortunate  chance.  She  had 
come  to  decline  my  invitation.  You  triumphed  on 
the  spot,  making  hei  ask  you,  at  the  end  of  three 
minutes,  to  her  house." 

58 


THE  AMERICAN 

"It  was  you  who  triumphed,"  said  Newman, 
"  You  must  n't  see  too  much  in  her." 

Mrs.  Tristram  stared.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

"She  did  n't  strike  me  as  so  very  proud.  I  should 
call  her  quite  timid." 

"I  should  call  you  quite  deep!  And  what  do  you 
think  of  her  face  ?" 

"Well,  I  guess  I  like  her  face,"  said  Newman. 

"I  should  think  you  might!  May  I  guess,  on  my 
side,  that  you'll  go  and  see  her?" 

"To-morrow!"  cried  Newman. 

"No,  not  to-morrow;  next  day.  That  will  be  Sun- 
day; she  leaves  Paris  on  Monday.  If  you  don't  see 
her  it  will  at  least  be  a  beginning."  And  she  gave 
him  Madame  de  Cintre's  address. 

He  walked  across  the  Seine  late  in  the  summer 
afternoon  and  made  his  way  through  those  grey  and 
silent  streets  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain  whose 
houses  present  to  the  outer  world  a  face  as  impassive 
and  as  suggestive  of  the  concentration  of  privacy 
within  as  the  blank  walls  of  Eastern  seraglios.  New- 
man thought  it  a  perverse,  verily  a  "  mean  "  way  for 
rich  people  to  live;  his  ideal  of  grandeur  was  a  splen- 
did facade,  diffusing  its  brilliancy  outward  too, 
irradiating  hospitality.  The  house  to  which  he  had 
been  directed  had  a  dark,  dusty,  painted  portal, 
which  swung  open  in  answer  to  his  ring.  It  admitted 
him  into  a  wide,  gravelled  court,  surrounded  on 
three  sides  with  closed  windows;  here  was  a  doorway 
facing  the  street,  approached  by  three  steps  and 
surmounted  by  a  tent-like  canopy.  The  place  was 
all  in  the  shade;  it  answered  to  Newman's  conception 

59 


THE  AMERICAN 

of  a  convent.  The  portress  couldn't  say  if  Madame 
de  Cintre  were  visible;  he  would  please  to  apply  at 
the  further  door.  He  crossed  the  court;  a  gentle- 
man was  sitting,  bareheaded,  on  the  steps  of  the 
portico,  in  play  with  a  beautiful  pointer.  He  rose 
as  Newman  approached,  and,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on 
the  bell,  said,  almost  sociably,  in  English,  that  he 
was  ashamed  a  visitor  should  be  kept  waiting:  the 
servants  were  scattered;  he  himself  had  been  ringing; 
he  did  n't  know  what  the  deuce  was  in  them.  This 
gentleman  was  young;  his  English  was  excellent,  his 
expression  easy.  Newman  pronounced  the  name  of 
Madame  de  Cintre. 

"I  dare  say/'  said  the  young  man,  "that  my  sister 
will  be  visible.  Come  in,  and  if  you  Ml  give  me  your 
card  I  '11  carry  it  to  her  myself." 

Newman  had  been  accompanied  on  his  present 
errand  by  a  sentiment  I  will  not  say  of  defiance  — 
a  readiness  for  aggression  or  for  defence,  as  either 
might  prove  needful  —  but  rather  of  meditative, 
though  quite  undaunted  and  good-humoured  sus- 
picion. He  took  from  his  pocket,  while  he  stood  on 
the  portico,  a  card  upon  which,  under  his  name,  he 
had  written  the  words  "San  Francisco,"  and  while 
he  presented  it  he  looked  warily  at  his  interlocutor. 
His  glance  found  quick  reassurance:  he  liked  the 
young  man's  face;  it  strongly  resembled  that  of 
Madame  de  Cintre,  whose  brother  he  would  clearly 
be.  The  young  man,  on  his  side,  had  made  a  rapid 
inspection  of  Newman's  person.  He  had  taken  the 
card  and  was  about  to  enter  the  house  with  it  when 
another  figure  appeared  on  the  threshold  —  an  older 

60 


THE  AMERICAN 

man,  of  a  fine  presence,  habited  in  evening-dress. 
He  looked  hard  at  Newman  and  Newman  met  his 
examination.  "Madame  de  Cintre,"  the  younger 
man  repeated  as  an  introduction  of  the  visitor.  The 
other  took  the  card  from  his  hand,  read  it  in  a  sus- 
tained stare,  looked  again  at  Newman  from  head  to 
foot,  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said,  gravely  but 
urbanely:  "Madame  de  Cintre  is  not  at  home." 

The  younger  man  made  a  gesture  and  turned  to 
Newman.  "  I  'm  very  sorry,  sir." 

Newman  gave  a  friendly  nod,  to  show  that  he  bore 
him  no  malice,  and  retraced  his  steps.  At  the  porter's 
lodge  he  stopped;  the  two  men  were  still  standing 
on  the  portico.  "Who  may  the  gentleman  with  the 
dog  be?"  he  asked  of  the  old  woman  who  re^p- 
peared.  He  had  begun  to  learn  French. 

"That's  Monsieur  le  Comte." 

"And  the  other?" 

"That's  Monsieur  le  Marquis." 

"A  marquis?"  said  Christopher  in  English,  which 
the  old  woman  fortunately  did  not  understand. 
"Oh  then  he's  not  the  major-domo  1" 


IV 


EARLY  one  morning,  before  he  was  dressed,  a  little 
old  man  was  ushered  into  his  apartment,  followed 
by  a  youth  in  a  blouse  who  carried  a  picture  in  a 
shining  frame.  Newman,  among  the  distractions  of 
Paris,  had  forgotten  M.  Nioche  and  his  accomplished 
daughter;  but  this  was  an  effective  reminder. 

"I  was  afraid  you  had  given  me  up,  sir,"  M. 
Nioche  confessed  after  many  apologies  «nd  saluta- 
tions. "We  have  made  you  wait  so  many  days.  You 
accused  us  perhaps  of  a  want  of  respectability,  of 
bad  faith,  what  do  I  know  ?  But  behold  me  at  last! 
And  behold  also  the  pretty  'Madonna/  Place  it  on 
a  chair,  my  friend,  in  a  good  light,  so  that  monsieur 
may  admire  it."  And  M.  Nioche,  addressing  his 
companion,  helped  him  to  dispose  the  work  of  art. 

It  had  been  endued  with  a  layer  of  varnish  an  inch 
thick,  and  its  frame,  of  an  elaborate  pattern,  was  at 
least  a  foot  wide.  It  glittered  and  twinkled  in  the 
morning  light  and  looked  to  Newman's  eyes  won- 
derfully splendid  and  precious.  He  thought  of  it  as 
a  very  happy  purchase  and  felt  rich  in  his  acquisition. 
He  stood  taking  it  in  complacently  while  he  pro- 
ceeded with  his  dressing,  and  M.  Nioche,  who  had 
dismissed  his  own  attendant,  hovered  near,  smiling 
and  rubbing  his  hands. 

"It  has  wonderful  finesse"  he  critically  pro- 
nounced. "And  here  and  there  are  marvellous 

62 


THE  AMERICAN 

touches;  you  probably  perceive  them,  sir.  It  attracted 
great  attention  on  the  Boulevard  as  we  came  along. 
And  then  a  gradation  of  tones!  That's  what  it  is 
really  to  know  how  to  paint.  I  don't  say  it  because 
I  'm  her  father,  sir;  but  as  one  man  of  taste  address- 
ing another  I  can't  help  observing  that  you've  ac- 
quired an  object  of  price.  It's  hard  to  produce  such 
things  and  to  have  to  part  with  them.  If  our  meam 
only  allowed  us  the  luxury  of  keeping  it!  I  in  fact 
may  say,  sir"  —  and  M.  Nioche  showed  a  feebly 
insinuating  gaiety  —  "I  really  may  say  that  I  envy 
you  your  privilege.  You  see,"  he  added  in  a  moment, 
"we've  taken  the  liberty  of  offering  you  a  frame. 
It  increases  by  a  trifle  the  value  of  the  work  and  it 
will  save  you  the  annoyance  —  so  great  for  a  person 
of  your  delicacy  —  of  going  about  to  bargain  at  the 
shops." 

The  language  spoken  by  M.  Nioche  was  a  singular 
compound,  which  may  not  here  be  reproduced  in  its 
integrity.  He  had  apparently  once  possessed  a  cer- 
tain knowledge  of  English,  and  his  accent  was  oddly 
tinged  with  old  cockneyisms  and  vulgarisms,  things 
quaint  and  familiar.  But  his  learning  had  grown 
rusty  with  disuse  and  his  vocabulary  was  defective 
and  capricious.  He  had  repaired  it  with  large  patches 
of  French,  with  words  anglicised  by  a  process  of  his 
own,  with  native  idioms  literally  translated.  The 
result,  in  the  form  in  which  he  in  all  humility  pre- 
sented it,  would  be  scarcely  comprehensible  to  the 
reader,  so  that  I  have  ventured  to  attempt  for  it  some 
approximate  notation.  Newman  only  half  followed, 
but  he  was  always  amused,  and  the  old  man's  decent 


THE  AMERICAN 

forlornness  appealed  to  his  democratic  instincts. 
The  assumption  of  any  inevitability  in  the  depressed 
state  always  irritated  his  strong  good-nature  —  it  was 
almost  the  only  thing  that  did  so;  and  he  felt  the 
impulse  to  pass  over  it  the  dipped  sponge  of  his  own 
prosperity.  Mademoiselle  Noemie's  parent,  however, 
had  apparently  on  this  occasion  been  vigorously  in- 
doctrinated and  showed  a  certain  tremulous  eagerness 
to  cultivate  unexpected  opportunities. 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you  then  with  the  frame  ?" 
Newman  asked. 

"It  will  make  in  all  three  thousand  francs,"  said 
the  old  man,  smiling  agreeably  but  folding  his  hands 
in  instinctive  suppliance. 

"Can  you  give  me  a  receipt?" 

"I've  brought  one,"  said  M.  Nioche.  "I  took  the 
liberty  of  drawing  it  up  in  case  monsieur  should  hap- 
pen to  desire  to  discharge  his  debt."  And  he  drew 
a  paper  from  his  pocket-book  and  presented  it  to  his 
patron.  The  document,  Newman  judged,  had  the 
graces  alike  of  penmanship  and  of  style.  He  laid 
down  the  money,  and  M.  Nioche  dropped  the  na- 
poleons one  by  one,  solemnly  and  lovingly,  into 
an  old  leathern  purse. 

"And  how's  your  young  lady?"  he  proceeded. 
"She  made  a  great  impression  on  me." 

"An  impression  ?  monsieur  is  very  good.  Mon- 
sieur finds  her — ?"  the  old  man  quavered. 

"I  find  her  remarkably  pretty." 

"Alas,  yes,  she's  very  very  pretty!" 

"And  what's  the  harm  in  her  being  so  ?" 

M.  Nioche  fixed  his  eyes  upon  a  spot  in  the  car- 

64 


THE  AMERICAN 

pet  and  </hook  his  head.  Then  raising  them  to  a  more 
intimate  intelligence:  "Monsieur  knows  what  Paris 
is.  Dangerous  to  beauty  when  beauty  has  n't  the 


sou." 


"Ah,  but  that's  not  the  case  with  your  daughter, 
Isn't  she  rich  now?" 

"We're  rich  —  yes,  for  six  months.  But  if  my 
daughter  were  less  attractive  I  should  sleep  none  the 


worse." 


"You  're  afraid  of  the  young  men  ?" 

"The  young  and  the  old!" 

"She  ought  to  get  a  husband." 

"Ah,  monsieur,  one  does  n't  get  a  husband  for 
nothing.  Her  husband  must  take  her  as  she  is;  I 
can't  give  her  a  Hard.  But  the  young  men  don't  see 
with  that  eye." 

"Oh,"  said  Newman,  "her  talent's  in  itself  a  good 
outfit." 

"Heiihy  for  that  it  needs  first  to  be  converted  into 
specie!"  —  and  M.  Nioche  slapped  his  purse  ten- 
derly before  he  stowed  it  away.  "The  miracle  does  n't 
take  place  every  day." 

"Well,  your  young  men  have  very  little  grit;  that's 
all  I  can  say.  They  ought  to  pay  for  your  daughter," 
Newman  said,  "and  not  ask  money  themselves." 

"Those  are  very  noble  ideas,  monsieur;  but  what 
will  you  have  ?  They're  not  the  ideas  of  this  country. 
WTe  want  to  know  where  we  are  when  we  marry." 

"Well,  how  much  will  it  take  to  show  where  your 
daughter  is  ?"  M.  Nioche  stared  as  if  he  wondered 
what  might  be  coming  next;  but  he  prompdy  re- 
covered himself,  at  a  venture,  and  replied  that  he 

65 


THE  AMERICAN 

knew  a  very  nice  young  man,  employed  by  an  in- 
surance company,  who  would  content  himself  with 
fifteen  thousand  francs.  "Let  your  daughter  paint 
half  a  dozen  pictures  for  me,"  his  benefactor  then 
resumed,  "and  you  can  offer  him  his  figure." 

"Half  a  dozen  pictures  —  his  figure?  Monsieur 
is  n't  speaking  inconsiderately  ?" 

"  If  she  '11  make  me  six  or  eight  copies  in  the  Louvre 
as  pretty  as  that  'Madonna/  I  '11  pay  her  the  same 
price, "  said  Newman. 

Poor  M.  Nioche  was  speechless  a  moment,  with 
amazement  and  gratitude;  after  which  he  seized 
Newman's  hand  and  pressed  it  between  his  own  ten 
fingers,  gazing  at  him  with  watery  eyes.  "As  pretty 
as  that  ?  They  shall  be  a  thousand  times  prettier  — 
they  shall  be  perfect  little  loves.  Ah,  if  I  only  knew 
how  to  paint  myself,  sir,  so  that  I  might  lend  a  hand! 
What  can  I  do  to  thank  you?  Voyons!"  —  and  he 
pressed  his  forehead  while  he  tried  to  think  of  some- 
thing. 

"Oh,  you've  thanked  me  enough,"  said  Newman. 

"Ah,  here  it  is,  sir!"  cried  M.  Nioche.  "To  ex- 
press my  gratitude  I'll  charge  you  nothing  for  our 
lessons!" 

"Our  lessons?  I  had  quite  forgotten  them.  Lis- 
tening to  your  English,"  Newman  laughed,  "is 
really  quite  a  lesson  in  French." 

"Ah,  I  don't  profess  to  teach  English,  certainly," 
said  M.  Nioche.  "  But  for  my  own  admirable  tongue 
I  Jm  still  at  your  service." 

"Since  you're  here  then  we'll  begin.  This  is  a 
very  good  hour,  I'm  going  to  have  my  coffee.  Come 

66 


THE  AMERICAN 
every  morning  at  half-past  nine  and  have  yours  with 


me." 


"Monsieur  offers  me  my  coffee  also?"  cried  M. 
Nioche.  "Truly  my  beaux  jours  are  coming  back." 

"Allans,  enfants  de  la  patrie"  said  Newman;  "let's 
begin!  The  coffee's  ripping  hot.  How  do  you  say 
that  in  French  ?" 

Every  day  then,  for  the  following  three  weeks,  the 
minutely  respectable  figure  of  M.  Nioche  made  its 
appearance,  with  a  series  of  little  enquiring  and 
apologetic  obeisances,  among  the  aromatic  fumes 
of  Newman's  morning  beverage.  I  know  not  what 
progress  he  made;  but,  as  he  himself  said,  if  he 
did  n't  learn  a  great  deal,  at  least  he  did  n't  learn 
much  harm.  And  it  amused  him;  it  gratified  that 
irregularly  sociable  side  of  his  nature  which  had  al- 
ways expressed  itself  in  a  relish  for  ungrammatical 
conversation  and  which  often,  even  in  his  busy  and 
preoccupied  days,  had  made  him  sit  on  rail  fences 
in  the  twilight  of  young  Western  towns  and  gossip 
scarce  less  than  fraternally  with  humorous  loafers 
and  obscure  fortune-seekers.  He  had  notions,  wher- 
ever he  went,  about  talking  with  the  natives;  he 
had  been  assured,  and  his  judgement  approved  the 
advice,  that  in  travelling  abroad  it  was  an  excellent 
thing  to  look  into  the  life  of  the  country.  M.  Nioche 
was  very  much  of  a  native,  and  though  his  life  might 
not  be  particularly  worth  looking  into  he  was  a 
palpable  and  smoothly-rounded  unit  in  that  "stiff" 
sum  of  civilisation  and  sophistication  which  offered 
our  hero  so  much  easy  entertainment  and  proposed  so 
many  curious  problems  to  his  idle  but  active  mind. 


THE  AMERICAN 

Newman  had  a  theory  that  his  intelligence  was 
lying  down,  but  at  least  it  could  n't  sleep.  He  was 
fond  of  statistics;  he  liked  to  know  how  things  were 
done;  it  gratified  him  to  learn  what  taxes  were  paid, 
what  profits  were  gathered,  what  commercial  habits 
prevailed,  how  the  battle  of  life  was  fought.  M. 
Nioche,  as  a  reduced  capitalist,  was  familiar  with 
these  considerations,  and  he  formulated  his  infor- 
mation, which  he  was  proud  to  be  able  to  impart, 
in  the  neatest  possible  terms  and  with  a  pinch  of 
snuff  between  finger  and  thumb.  As  a  Frenchman 
—  quite  apart  from  Newman's  napoleons  —  M. 
Nioche  loved  conversation,  and  even  in  his  decay 
his  urbanity  had  not  declined.  As  a  Frenchman  too 
he  could  give  a  clear  account  of  things,  and  —  still 
as  a  Frenchman  — when  his  knowledge  was  at  fault  he 
could  supply  its  lapses  with  the  most  convenient  and 
ingenious  hypotheses.  The  small  shrunken  bourgeois 
rejoiced,  ever,  to  have  questions  asked  him,  and  he 
scraped  together  information  by  frugal  processes,  he 
took  in  his  little  greasy  pocket-book  notes  of  matters 
that  might  interest  his  munificent  friend.  He  read  old 
almanacks  at  the  book-stalls  on  the  quays  and  be- 
gan to  frequent  another  cafe,  where  more  news- 
papers were  taken  and  his  post-prandial  demi-tasse 
cost  him  a  penny  extra,  and  where  he  used  to  con  the 
tattered  sheets  for  curious  anecdotes,  freaks  of  nature 
and  strange  coincidences.  He  would  relate  with 
solemnity  the  next  morning  that  a  child  of  five  years 
of  age  had  lately  died  at  Bordeaux,  whose  brain  had 
been  found  to  weigh  sixty  ounces  —  the  brain  of  a 
Napoleon  or  a  Washington!  or  that  Madame  X, 

68 


THE  AMERICAN 

char  cutler  e  in  the  Rue  de  Clichy,  had  found  in  the 
wadding  of  an  old  petticoat  the  sum  of  three  hundred 
and  sixty  francs,  which  she  had  lost  five  years  before. 
He  pronounced  his  words  with  great  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance, and  Newman  assured  him  that  his  way 
of  dealing  with  the  French  tongue  was  very  superior 
to  the  bewildering  chatter  that  he  heard  in  other 
mouths.  Upon  this  M.  Nioche's  accent  became 
more  flutelike  than  ever;  he  offered  to  read  extracts 
from  Lamartine  and  protested  that,  although  he  did 
endeavour  according  to  his  feeble  lights  to  cultivate 
authority  of  diction,  monsieur,  if  he  wanted  the  real 
thing,  should  go  to  the  Comedie. 

Newman  took  an  interest  in  the  wondrous  French 
thrift  and  conceived  a  lively  admiration  for  Parisian 
economies.  His  own  economic  genius  was  so  entirely 
for  operations  on  a  larger  scale,  and,  to  move  at  his 
ease,  he  needed  so  imperatively  the  sense  of  great 
risks  and  great  prizes,  that  he  found  diversion  akin 
to  the  watching  of  ants  in  the  spectacle  of  fortunes 
made  by  the  aggregation  of  copper  coins  and  in  the 
minute  subdivision  of  labour  and  profit.  He  ques- 
tioned M.  Nioche  about  his  own  manner  of  life  and 
felt  a  friendly  mixture  of  compassion  and  respect 
for  the  mystery  of  these  humilities.  The  worthy 
man  told  him  how  he  and  his  daughter  had  at  one 
period  supported  existence  comfortably  on  the  sum 
of  fifteen  sous  per  diem;  recently,  having  succeeded 
in  dragging  ashore  the  last  floating  fragments  of  the 
wreck  of  his  fortune,  his  budget  had  been  a  trifle 
more  ample.  But  they  still  had  to  butter  their  bread 
very  thin,  and  M.  Nioche  intimated  with  a  sigh  that 

69 


THE  AMERICAN 

his  young  companion  did  n't  bring  to  this  task  the 
zealous  co-operation  that  might  have  been  desired. 
"  But  what  will  you  have  ?  One  is  in  the  flower  of 
youth,  one  is  pretty,  one  needs  new  dresses  and  fresh 
gloves;  one  can't  wear  shabby  gowns  among  the 
splendours  of  the  Louvre." 

"  Yet  she  must  earn  what  will  pay  for  her  clothes," 
Newman  felt  enlisted  enough  to  suggest. 

M.  Nioche  looked  at  him  with  weak,  uncertain 
eyes.  He  would  have  liked  to  be  able  to  say  that  his 
daughter's  talents  were  appreciated  and  that  her 
crooked  little  daubs  commanded  a  market;  but  it 
seemed  a  scandal  to  abuse  the  credulity  of  this  free- 
handed stranger,  who,  without  a  suspicion  or  a 
question,  had  admitted  him  to  equal  social  rights.  He 
compromised,  he  declared  that  while  it  was  obvious 
that  Mademoiselle  Noemie's  reproductions  of  the  old 
masters  had  only  to  be  seen  to  be  coveted,  the  prices 
which,  in  consideration  of  their  altogether  peculiar 
degree  of  finish,  she  felt  obliged  to  ask  for  them,  had 
kept  purchasers  at  a  respectful  distance.  "  Poor  little 
cherished  one!"  said  M.  Nioche  with  a  sigh;  "it's 
almost  a  pity  that  her  work 's  so  perfect!  It  would  be 
in  her  interest  to  be  a  bit  of  an  impostor." 

"  But  if  she  has  this  spark  of  the  flame,"  Newman 
benevolently  reasoned,  "why  should  you  have  those 
fears  for  her  that  you  spoke  of  the  other  day  ? " 

M.  Nioche  meditated;  there  was  an  inconsistency 
in  his  position;  it  made  him  particularly  uncom- 
fortable. Though  he  had  no  desire  to  destroy  the 
goose  with  the  golden  eggs  —  Newman's  benevol- 
ent confidence  —  he  felt  a  weary  need  to  speak  out 

70 


THE  AMERICAN 

all  his  trouble.  "Ah,  she  has  a  spark  of  that  flame, 
my  dear  sir,  most  assuredly.  But,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
she  has  also  more  than  a  mere  spark  of  another. 
She's  a  franche  coquette  if  there  ever  was  one.  I'm 
sorry  to  say,"  he  added  in  a  moment,  shaking  his 
head  with  a  world  of  accepted  melancholy,  "it  was 
to  come  to  her  as  straight  as  a  letter  in  the  post.  Her 
poor  mother  had  that  sad  vice." 

**  Why,  you  were  n't  happy  with  your  wife  ?"  New- 
man almost  incredulously  asked. 

M.  Nioche  gave  half  a  dozen  little  backward  jerks 
ot  his  head.  "She  was  my  heavy  cross,  monsieur!" 

"She  was  n't  very  good  ?" 

"She  was  good  for  some  things  and  some  people, 
but  not  for  a  pooi  man  like  me.  She  deceived  me, 
under  my  nose,  year  after  yeai.  1  was  too  srupid, 
and  the  temptation  was  too  great.  But  1  found  her 
out  at  last  I  've  only  been  once  in  my  life  a  man  to 
be  afraid  of;  1  know  it  very  well:  it  was  in  that 
hour!  Nevertheless  1  don't  like  to  think  of  it.  1  loved 
her  —  I  can't  tell  you  why  nor  how  much.  Oh,  she 
was  —  if  I  must  say  so  —  bad." 

"She's  not  living?" 

"She's  gone  to  her  account." 

"  Her  influence  on  your  daughter  then,"  said  New- 
man encouragingly,  "is  not  to  be  feared." 

"She  cared  no  more  for  her  daughter  than  for  the 
wind  in  the  chimney.  But  Noemie  has  no  more  use 
for  bad  examples  than  for  good.  She's  sufficient 
to  herself.  She's  stronger  than  I." 

"She  does  n't  mind  what  you  say  ?" 

"There  is  n't  much  to  mind,  sir  —  1  say  so  little 

7* 


THE  AMERICAN 

What's  the  use  of  my  saying  anything  ?  It  would 
only  irritate  her  and  drive  her  to  some  coup  de  tete. 
She's  very  clever,  like  her  poor  mother;  she  would 
waste  no  time  about  it.  As  a  child  —  when  1  was 
happy,  or  supposed  1  was  —  she  studied  drawing  and 
painting  with  first-class  professors,  and  they  assured 
me  she  had  the  gift.  I  was  delighted  to  believe  it,  and 
when  I  went  into  society  1  used  to  carry  her  little 
water-colours  with  me  in  a  portfolio  and  hand  them 
round  to  the  company.  I  remember  how  a  lady  once 
thought  I  was  offering  them  lor  sale  and  that  I  took 
it  very  ill.  We  don't  know  what  we  may  come  to! 
Then  came  my  dark  days  and  my  final  rupture 
with  Madame  Nioche  Noemie  had  no  more  twenty- 
franc  lessons;  but  in  the  course  of  time,  when  she 
grew  older  and  it  became  highly  expedient  that  she 
should  do  something  that  would  help  to  keep  us  alive, 
she  bethought  herself  of  her  palette  and  brushes. 
Some  of  our  friends  in  the  quartier  pronounced  the 
idea  fantastic:  they  recommended  her  to  try  bonnet- 
making,  to  get  a  situation  in  a  shop,  or  —  if  she  was 
more  ambitious  —  to  advertise  for  a  place  of  dame 
de  compagnie.  She  did  advertise,  and  an  old  lady 
wrote  her  a  letter  and  bade  her  come  and  see  her. 
The  old  lady  liked  her  and  made  her  an  offer  of  her 
living  and  six  hundred  francs  a  year;  but  Noemie 
discovered  that  she  passed  her  life  in  her  arm-chair 
and  had  only  two  visitors,  her  confessor  and  her 
nephew:  the  confessor  very  strict,  and  the  nephew 
a  man  of  fifty,  with  a  broken  nose  and  a  government 
clerkship  of  two  thousand  francs.  She  threw  her  old 
lady  over,  bought  a  paint-box,  a  canvas  and  a  new 

72 


THE  AMERICAN 

dress,  and  went  and  set  up  her  easel  in  the  Louvre. 
There,  in  one  place  and  another,  she  has  passed  the 
last  two  years;  I  can't  say  it  has  made  us  millionaires. 
But  she  tells  me  Rome  was  n't  built  in  a  day,  that 
she's  making  great  progress,  that  I  must  leave  her 
to  her  own  devices.  The  fact  is,  without  prejudice  to 
her  'gift,'  that  she  has  no  idea  of  burying  herself 
alive.  She  likes  to  see  the  world  and  to  be  seen  of  the 
world.  She  says  herself  that  she  can't  work  in  the 
dark.  Her  appearance  itself  holds  up  the  lamp  for 
others!  Only  I  can't  help  worrying  and  trembling  — 
I  can't  help  wondering  what  may  happen  to  her 
there  all  alone,  day  after  day,  amid  that  prowling  of 
people  from  the  ends  of  the  earth.  I  can't  be  always 
at  her  side.  I  go  with  her  in  the  morning,  and  I  come 
to  fetch  her  away,  but  she  won't  have  me  near  her  in 
the  interval;  she  says  I  give  on  her  nerves.  As  if  it 
did  n't  give  on  mine  to  keep  walking  up  and  down 
outside!  Ah,  if  anything  were  to  happen  to  her!" 
cried  M.  Nioche,  clenching  his  two  fists  and  jerking 
back  his  head  again  portentously. 

"Oh,  I  guess  she'll  come  out  all  right,"  his  friend 
soothingly  returned. 

"I  believe  I  should  shoot  her  otherwise!"  said  the 
old  man  solemnly. 

"Well,  we'll  marry  her  quick  enough,"  insisted 
Newman  —  "since  that's  how  you  manage  it;  and 
I'll  go  and  see  her  to-morrow  at  the  Louvre  and  pick 
out  the  pictures  she's  to  copy  for  me." 

M.  Nioche  had  brought  a  message  from  his  daugh- 
ter in  acceptance  of  their  patron's  magnificent  com- 
mission, the  young  lady  declaring  herself  his  most 

73 


THE  AMERICAN 

devoted  servant,  promising  her  most  zealous  endeav- 
our and  regretting  that  the  proprieties  forbade  hei 
coming  to  thank  him  in  person.  The  morning  after 
the  conversation  just  narrated  Newman  reverted  to 
his  intention  of  meeting  his  young  friend  at  the 
Louvre.  M.  Nioche  appeared  preoccupied  and  left 
his  budget  of  anecdotes  unopened;  he  took  a  great 
deal  of  snuff  and  sent  certain  oblique,  appealing 
glances  toward  his  stalwart  pupil.  At  last,  when 
taking  his  leave,  he  stood  a  moment,  after  he  had 
polished  his  hat  with  his  calico  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  fixed  his  small  pale  eyes  strangely  on  that  per- 
sonage. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Pardon  the  solicitude  of  a  father's  heart!  You 
inspire  me  with  boundless  confidence,  but  I  can't 
help  making  you  an  appeal.  After  all  you're  a  man, 
and  so  fine  a  one;  you're  young  and  at  liberty.  Let 
me  beseech  you  then  to  respect  an  innocence  — !" 

Newman  had  wondered  what  was  coming,  yet  had 
already  burst  into  mirth.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
pronouncing  his  own  innocence  the  more  exposed, 
but  he  contented  himself  with  promising  to  treat  the 
young  lady  with  nothing  less  than  veneration.  He 
found  her,  awaiting  him,  seated  on  the  great  divan 
of  the  Salon  Carre.  She  was  not  in  the  garb  of  labour, 
but  wore  her  bonnet  and  gloves  and  carried  her 
parasol  in  honour  of  the  occasion.  These  articles 
had  been  selected  with  unerring  taste,  and  a  fresher, 
prettier  image  of  youthful  alertness  and  blooming 
discretion  was  not  to  be  conceived.  She  made  New- 
man a  most  respectful  curtsey,  she  expressed  hei 

74 


THE   AMERICAN 

gratitude  for  his  liberality  in  the  neatest  of  little 
speeches.  It  annoyed  him  to  have  so  charming  a 
girl  stand  there  thanking  him,  and  it  made  him  feel 
uncomfortable  to  think  that  this  perfect  young  lady, 
with  her  excellent  manners  and  her  finished  intona- 
tion, was  literally  in  his  pay.  He  assured  her,  in  such 
French  as  he  could  muster,  that  the  thing  was  not 
worth  mentioning  and  that  he  regarded  her  services 
as  a  particular  favour. 

"Whenever  you  please  then,"  she  said,  "we'll 
pass  the  review." 

They  walked  slowly  round  the  room  and  then 
into  the  others;  they  strolled  about  with  high  dig- 
nity for  half  an  hour.  His  companion  evidently  rel- 
ished her  situation  and  had  no  desire  to  bring  to 
a  close  her  public  interview  with  a  patron  of  such 
striking  type.  Newman  perceived  that  prosperity 
agreed  with  her  and  that  the  little  firm-lipped, 
peremptory  air  with  which  she  had  addressed  her 
father  on  the  occasion  of  their  former  meeting  had 
given  place  to  the  prettiest,  easiest  prattle. 

"  What  sort  of  pictures  have  you  in  mind  ?"  she 
asked.  "Sacred  or  profane?" 

"Oh,  a  few  of  each.  But  I  want  something  bright 
and  gay." 

"Something  gay?  There's  nothing  very  gay  in 
this  solemn  old  Louvre.  But  we'll  see  what  we  can 
find.  You  speak  French  to-day  like  a  charm.  My 
father  has  done  wonders." 

'  Oh,  I'm  a  thankless  subject,"  said  Newman. 
"I'm  too  old  to  learn  a  language." 

"Too  old  ?    Quelle  folie!"  she  cried  with  a  clear, 

•   75 


THE   AMERICAN 

shrill  laugh.  "You're  a  very  beau  jeune  humme. 
And  how  do  you  like  my  father?" 

"He's  a  very  nice  old  gentleman.  He  nevei  laughs 
at  my  blunders." 

"He's  very  comme  il  faut,  dear  papa,"  said  Ma- 
demoiselle Noemie,  "and  as  honest  as  the  day.  Oh, 
a  probity  that  would  take  a  prize!  You  could  trust 
him  with  millions." 

"Do  you  always  mind  what  he  says?"  asked 
Newman. 

"'Mind'  it?" 

"Do  you  do  what  he  bids  you." 

The  girl  stopped  and  looked  at  him;  she  had  a 
spot  of  colour  in  either  cheek,  and  in  her  prompt 
French  eye,  too  protrusive  for  perfect  beauty,  was  a 
sharp  spark  of  freedom.  **  Why  do  you  ask  me 
that?" 

"Because  I  want  to  know." 

"You  think  me  a  bad  little  girl?"  And  she  gave 
a  strange  smile. 

Newman  looked  at  her  a  moment;  he  saw  she  was 
pretty,  but  he  was  not  in  the  least  dazzled.  He  re- 
membered poor  M.  Nioche's  solicitude  for  her  inno- 
cence, and  he  laughed  out  again  as  his  eyes  met  this 
odd  quantity.  Her  face  was  a  rare  mixture  of  youth 
and  maturity,  and  beneath  her  clear,  charming  fore- 
head her  searching  little  smile  seemed  to  contain  a 
world  of  ambiguous  intentions.  She  was  pretty 
enough,  certainly,  to  make  her  father  uneasy;  but 
as  regards  her  innocence  Newman  felt  ready  on  the 
spot  to  affirm  that  she  had  never  yet  sacrificed  it. 
She  had  simply  never  had  any  to  lose;  she  had  been 


THE  AMERICAN 

looking  at  the  wonderful  world  about  her  since 
was  ten  years  old,  and  he  would  have  been  a  wise 
man  who  could  tell  her  any  secret  of  the  town.  In  her 
long  mornings  at  the  Louvre  she  had  not  only  studied 
Madonnas  and  Saint  Johns;  she  had  kept  an  eye 
upon  the  variously-embodied  human  nature  in  which 
the  scene  no  less  abounded,  and  she  had  formed  her 
conclusions.  In  a  degree,  it  seemed  to  Newman, 
M.  Nioche  might  be  at  rest;  if  his  daughter  should 
assert  her  liberty  in  some  unmistakeable  way  she 
would  yet  never  publish  her  imprudence.  Newman, 
with  his  long-drawn,  leisurely  smile  and  his  articu- 
lation that  suggested  confidence  in  nothing  but  its 
motive,  was  always  mentally  taking  his  time;  so  he 
asked  himself  now  what  she  was  looking  at  him  in 
that  way  for.  He  had  an  impression  she  would  like 
him  to  confess  that  he  did  think  her  a  wretch.  "Oh 
no,"  he  said  at  last;  "  it  would  be  very  impolite  in 
me  to  judge  you  in  any  such  way.  I  don't  know 
you." 

"  But  my  father  has  complained  to  you." 

"He  says  you're  a  free  spirit." 

"He  shouldn't  go  about  saying  such  things  to 
gentlemen!  But  you  don't  believe  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Newman  conscientiously,  "I  don't 
believe  he  meant  any  harm  by  it." 

She  looked  at  him  again,  gave  a  shrug  and  a  smile, 
and  then  pointed  to  a  small  Italian  picture,  a  Marriage 
of  Saint  Catherine.  "How  should  you  like  that  ?" 

"It  doesn't  please  me,"  he  presently  answered. 
"The  young  lady  in  the  yellow  dress  is  n't  pretty 
enough." 

•'    77 


THE   AMERICAN 

"Ah,  you're  a  great  connoisseur!"  his  companion 
sighed. 

"In  pictures?  Oh  no;  I'm  only  picking  up  the 
rudiments  of  knowledge." 

"In  pretty  women  then  ?" 

"In  that  I  may  be  coming  on,  but  I've  ground  tc 
make  up." 

"What  do  you  say  to  this?"  the  girl  asked,  indi- 
cating a  superb  Italian  portrait  of  a  lady.  "I'll  do 
it  for  you  on  a  smaller  scale." 

"  On  a  smaller  scale  ?  Why  not  as  large  as  the 
original  ?" 

She  glanced  at  the  glowing  splendour  of  the  Vene- 
tian masterpiece  and  gave  a  toss  of  her  head.  "I 
don't  like  that  woman.  She  looks  stupid." 

"Well,  she  makes  an  impression  on  me,"  said 
Newman.  "Decidedly  I  must  have  her,  and  as  large 
as  life.  And  just  as  shiningly  stupid  as  she  stands 
there." 

The  girl  fixed  her  eyes  on  him  again,  and  with  her 
mocking  smile:  "It  certainly  ought  to  be  easy  for 
me  to  make  her  look  stupid!"  And  then  as  he  but 
opposed  his  vagueness  she  gave  another  shrug. 
"Seriously,  you  want  that  portrait  —  the  golden 
hair,  the  purple  satin,  the  pearl  necklace,  the  two 
magnificent  arms  ?" 

"Everything  —  just  as  it  is." 

"Would  nothing  else  do  instead  ?" 

"Oh,  1  want  some  other  things,  but  I  want  that 


too." 


She  turned  away  a  moment,  walked  to  the  other 
side  of  the  hall  and  stood   there  looking  vaguely 

78 


THE   AMERICAN 

about  her.  At  last  she  came  back.  "It  must  be 
charming  to  be  able  to  order  pictures  at  such  a  rate. 
Venetian  portraits  as  large  as  life!  You  go  at  it  en 
prince.  And  you're  going  to  travel  about  Europe 
that  way  ?" 

"Yes,  I  intend  to  travel,"  said  Newman. 

"Ordering,  buying,  spending  money?" 

"Of  course  I  shall  spend  a  certain  amount  of 
money." 

"You're  very  happy  to  have  it.  And  you're  per- 
fectly free?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  free?" 

"You  have  nothing  to  embeter  you  —  no  father, 
no  family,  no  wife,  no  fiancee?" 

"Yes,  I'm  tolerably  free." 

"You're  very  very  happy,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Noemie  gravely. 

"Je  le  veux  bien!"  said  Newman,  proving  that  he 
had  learned  more  French  than  he  admitted. 

"And  how  long  shall  you  stay  in  Paris?"  the 
girl  went  on. 

"Only  a  few  days  more." 

"Why  do  you  go  away?" 

"It 's  getting  hot,  and  I  must  go  to  Switzerland." 

"To  Switzerland  ?  That's  a  fine  country.  I  would 
give  the  clothes  on  my  back  to  see  it!  Lakes  and 
mountains,  deep  green  valleys,  ranz-des-vaches!  Oh 
I  congratulate  you!  Meanwhile  I  shall  sit  here 
through  all  the  hot  summer  daubing  at  your  pic- 
tures." 

"Ah,  take  your  time  about  it,"  Newman  urged, 
"Do  them  at  your  convenience." 
-:    79 


THE   AMERICAN 

They  walked  further  and  looked  at  a  dozen  other 
things.  He  pointed  out  what  pleased  him,  and 
Mademoiselle  Noemie  generally  criticised  it  and 
proposed  something  else.  Then  suddenly  she  di- 
verged into  the  intimate.  "What  made  you  speak 
to  me  the  other  day  in  the  Salon  Carre?" 

"I  admired  your  picture/' 

"  But  you  hesitated  a  long  time." 

"Oh,  I  do  nothing  foolish,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  saw  you  watching  me.  But  I  never  sup- 
posed you  were  going  to  speak  to  me.  I  never  dreamed 
1  should  be  walking  about  here  with  you  to-day. 
It's  very  remarkable." 

"It's  sufficiently  natural,"  he  calmly  pleaded. 

"Ah,  I  beg  your  pardon:  not  to  me.  'Free  spirit* 
—  in  other  words  horrid  creature  —  as  you  think 
me,  I  have  never  walked  about  in  public  with  a 
gentleman  before.  What  was  my  father  thinking  of 
when  he  consented  to  our  interview?" 

"He  was  repenting  of  his  unjust  accusations," 
Newman  returned. 

Mademoiselle  Noemie  remained  silent;  at  last  she 
dropped  into  a  seat.  "Well  then,  for  those  five  it's 
fixed,"  she  presently  said.  "Five  copies  as  brilliant 
and  beautiful  as  I  can  make  them.  We  've  one  more 
to  choose.  Should  n't  you  like  one  of  those  great 
Rubenses  —  the  Marriage  of  Marie  de  Medicis  ? 
Just  look  at  it  and  see  how  handsome  it  is." 

"Oh  yes;  I  should  like  that,"  he  allowed.  "Finish 
off  with  that." 

"Finish  off  with  that  —  good!"  she  laughed.  She 
sat  a  moment  looking  at  him,  then  suddenly  rose 

80 


THE   AMERICAN 

and  stood  before  him  with  her  arms  expressively 
folded.  "Ah  $ay  I  don't  understand  you,"  she 
bravely  broke  out.  "I  don't  understand  how  a  man 
can  be  so  ignorant." 

"Oh,  I'm  ignorant  certainly."  And  he  put  his 
hands  in  his  packets. 

"It's  too  ridiculous!  I  don't  know  how  to  paint 
pour  deux  sous." 

"You  don't  know  how?" 

"I  paint  like  a  cat;  I  can't  draw  a  straight  line. 
I  never  sold  a  picture  until  you  bought  that  thing 
the  other  day."  And  as  she  offered  this  surprising 
information  she  continued  to  smile. 

Newman  met  it  with  a  grimace  of  his  own.  "Why 
do  you  make  that  statement?" 

"Because  it  irritates  me  to  see  a  clever  man  so 
bete.  My  copies  are  grotesque." 

"And  the  one  I  possess  —  ?" 

"That  one  's  the  flower  of  the  dreadful  family." 

"Well,"  said  Newman,  "I  never  outgrew  a  mis- 
take but  in  my  own  time  and  in  my  own  way." 

She  looked  at  him  askance.  "Your  patience  is 
very  gentille ;  it's  my  duty  to  warn  you  before  you  go 
further.  This  commande  of  yours  is  impossible,  you 
know.  What  do  you  take  me  for  ?  It's  work  for  ten 
strong  men.  You  pick  out  the  six  most  difficult 
pictures  in  the  place,  and  you  expect  me  to  go  to  work 
as  if  I  were  sitting  down  to  hem  a  dozen  pocket- 
handkerchiefs.  I  wanted  to  see  how  far  you'd  go." 

Newman  considered  her  in  some  perplexity.  In 
spite  of  the  blunder  of  which  he  stood  convicted  he 
was  very  far  from  being  a  simpleton,  and  he  had  a 
.  Si 


THE   AMERICAN 

lively  suspicion  that  her  burst  of  confidence  was  not 
essentially  more  honest  than  her  original  pretence. 
She  was  playing  a  great  game;  she  was  not  simply 
taking  pity  on  the  bloom  of  his  barbarism.  What 
was  it  she  expected  to  gain  ?  The  stakes  were  high 
and  the  risk  not  small;  the  prize  therefore  must 
have  been  commensurate.  But  even  granting  that 
the  prize  might  be  great  Newman  could  scarce  resist 
a  movement  of  admiration  for  his  young  friend's 
intrepidity.  She  was  throwing  away  with  one  hand, 
whatever  she  might  intend  to  do  with  the  other,  a 
substantial  sum  of  money.  "Are  you  joking  or 
serious  ?" 

"Oh,  d'un  serieux!"  she  cried,  but  with  hei  extra- 
ordinary smile. 

"I  know  very  little  about  pictures  or  how  they'ie 
really  painted.  If  you  can't  do  all,  why  then  do  what 
you  conveniently  can.'* 

"  It  will  all  be  bad  a  faire  pleurer"  said  Mademoi- 
selle Noemie. 

"Oh,"  Newman  laughed,  "if  you  want  to  swindle 
me  of  course  you  can.  But  why  do  you  go  on  paint- 
ing badly?" 

"I  can  do  nothing  else;  I've  neither  eye  nor  hand 
nor  training.  Above  all  I  have  n't  patience." 

"You're  deceiving  your  father  then." 

The  girl  just  hesitated.    "He  perfectly  knows." 

"No,"  Newman  declared;  "I'm  sure  he  believes 
in  you  " 

"He's  afraid  of  me,  poor  dear.  I  go  on  painting 
badly,  as  you  say,  because  it  passes  the  time.  I  like 
being  here;  it's  a  place  to  come  to  every  day;  it's 

82 


THE   AMERICAN 

better  than  sitting   in  a  little  dark  damp  room  on 
a  court  or  than  selling  buttons  and  whalebones  over 


a  counter." 


"Of  course  it's  much  more  amusing,"  said  New- 
man. "  But  for  a  poor  girl  is  n't  it  rather  an  expen- 
sive amusement?'* 

"  Oh,  I  'm  very  wrong;  there 's  no  doubt  about  that/' 
she  answered.  "But  rather  than  earn  my  living  as 
some  girls  do  —  toiling  with  a  needle  in  little  black 
holes  out  of  the  world  —  I'd  throw  myself  into  the 
Seine." 

"There's  no  need  of  that,"  he  presently  observed. 
"Your  father  must  have  mentioned  to  you  the  reason 
of  my  offer  ?" 

"The  reason  —  ?" 

"He  wants  you  to  marry,  and  I  told  him  I'd  give 
you  a  chance  to  earn  your  dot" 

"He  told  me  all  about  it,  and  you  see  the  account 
I  make  of  it!  Why  should  you  take  such  an  interest 
in  my  marriage  ?" 

"My  interest  was  in  your  father.  I  hold  to  my 
engagement.  Do  what  you  can,  and  I'll  buy  what 
you  do." 

She  stood  some  time  in  thought,  her  eyes  on  the 
ground,  At  last  looking  up,  "What  sort  of  a  hus- 
band can  you  get  for  twelve  thousand  francs  ?"  she 
asked. 

"Your  father  tells  me  he  knows  some  very  good 
young  men." 

"Grocers  and  butchers  and  little  maitres  de  cafes? 
1  won't  marry  at  all  if  I  can't  marry  more  proprement 
than  that." 

83 


THE   AMERICAN 

"I'd  advise  you  not  to  be  too  fastidious,"  said 
Newman.  "That's  all  the  advice  I  can  give  you/* 

"I'm  vexed  at  what  I've  said!"  cried  his  com- 
panion. "It  has  done  me  no  good.  But  I  could  n't 
help  it." 

"What  good  did  you  expect  it  to  do  you  ?" 

"I  could  n't  help  it,  simply." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "Well,  your  painting 
may  be  a  fraud,  but  you're  too  honest  for  me  all  the 
same.  I  don't  understand  you.  Good-bye!"  And  he 
put  out  his  hand. 

She  made  no  response,  she  granted  him  no  fare- 
well. She  turned  away  and  seated  herself  sidewise 
on  a  bench,  leaning  her  head  on  the  back  of  her 
hand,  which  clasped  the  rail  in  front  of  the  pictures. 
Newman  stood  near  her  another  moment,  then  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  retreated.  He  had  understood 
her  better  than  he  confessed;  this  singular  scene 
was  a  practical  commentary  upon  her  father's  de- 
scription of  her  as  a  free  spirit. 


WHEN  he  had  told  Mrs.  Tristram  the  story  of  his 
fruitless  visit  to  Madame  de  Cintre  she  urged  him  not 
to  be  discouraged,  but  to  carry  out  his  plan  of  "  seeing 
Europe"  during  the  summer  —  after  which  he  might 
return  to  Paris  for  the  autumn  and  then  settle  down 
comfortably  for  the  winter.  "Claire  de  Cintre  will 
be  kept  in  a  cool  place  for  you,"  she  reasoned;  "  she's 
not  a  woman  who'll  change  her  condition  from  one 
day  to  another."  Newman  made  no  distinct  affirma- 
tion that  he  would  come  back  to  Paris;  he  even 
talked  about  Rome  and  the  Nile,  and  abstained 
from  professing  any  especial  interest  in  Madame  de 
Cintre's  continued  widowhood.  This  was  a  little 
of  a  false  note  in  his  usual  distinctness,  and  may 
perhaps  be  regarded  as  characteristic  of  the  incipient 
stage  of  that  passion  which  is  more  particularly 
known  as  the  romantic  one.  The  truth  is  that  the 
expression  of  a  pair  of  eyes,  that  were  both  intense 
and  mild,  had  become  very  familiar  to  his  memory, 
and  he  would  not  easily  have  resigned  himself  to  the 
prospect  of  never  looking  into  them  again.  He  com- 
municated to  Mrs.  Tristram  a  number  of  other  facts, 
of  greater  or  less  importance,  as  you  choose;  but  on 
this  particular  point  he  kept  his  own  counsel.  He 
took  a  kindly  leave  of  M.  Nioche,  having  assured 
him  that  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  the  blue-cloaked 
Madonna  herself  might  have  been  present  at  his 

85 


THE   AMERICAN 

interview  with  Mademoiselle  Noemie;  and  left  the 
old  man  nursing  his  breast-pocket  in  an  ecstasy 
which  the  sharpest  paternal  discomposure  might  have 
been  defied  to  dissipate. 

He  started  on  his  travels  with  all  his  usual  appear- 
ance of  slow-strolling  leisure  and  all  his  essential 
directness  and  intensity  of  aim.  No  man  seemed 
less  in  a  hurry  and  yet  no  man  enabled  brief  periods 
to  serve  him  more  liberally.  He  had  practical  in- 
stincts which  signally  befriended  him  in  his  trade 
of  tourist.  He  found  his  way  in  foreign  cities  by 
divination,  his  memory  was  excellent  when  once  his 
attention  had  been  at  all  cordially  given,  and  he 
emerged  from  dialogues  in  foreign  tongues,  of  which 
he  had  formally  not  understood  a  word,  in  full  pos- 
session of  the  particular  item  he  had  desired  to  elicit. 
His  appetite  for  items  was  large,  and  although  many 
of  those  he  noted  might  have  seemed  woefully  dry 
and  colourless  to  the  ordinary  sentimental  traveller, 
a  careful  inspection  of  the  list  would  have  shown 
that  his  toughness  had  sensitive  spots.  In  the  charm- 
ing city  of  Brussels  —  his  first  stopping-place  after 
leaving  Paris  —  he  asked  a  great  many  questions 
about  the  street-cars  and  took  extreme  satisfaction 
in  the  reappearance  of  this  familiar  symbol  of  Ameri- 
can civilisation;  but  he  was  also  greatly  struck  with 
the  beautiful  Gothic  tower  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and 
wondered  if  they  might  n't  "get  up"  something  like 
it  in  San  Francisco.  He  stood  long  in  the  crowded 
square  before  this  edifice,  in  imminent  danger  from 
carriage- wheels,  listening  to  a  toothless  old  cicerone 
mumble  in  broken  English  the  touching  history  of 

86 


THE   AMERICAN 

Counts  Egmont  and  Horn;  and  he  wrote  the  names 
of  these  gentlemen  —  for  reasons  best  known  to  him- 
self —  on  the  back  of  an  old  letter. 

At  the  outset,  on  his  leaving  Paris,  his  curiosity 
had  not  been  intense;  passive  entertainment,  in  the 
Champs  Elysees  and  at  the  theatres,  seemed  about 
as  much  as  he  need  expect  of  himself,  and  although, 
as  he  had  said  to  Tristram,  he  wanted  to  see  the 
mysterious  and  satisfying  best,  he  had  not  the  grand 
tour  in  the  least  on  his  conscience  and  was  not  given 
to  worrying  the  thing  that  amused  him.  He  believed 
serenely  that  Europe  was  made  for  him  and  not  he 
for  Europe.  He  had  said  he  wanted  to  improve  his 
mind,  but  he  would  have  felt  a  certain  embarrass- 
ment, a  certain  shame  even  —  a  false  shame  pos- 
sibly —  if  he  had  caught  himself  looking  intellect- 
ually into  the  mirror.  Neither  in  this  nor  in  any  other 
respect  had  he  a  high  sense  of  responsibility;  it  was 
his  prime  conviction  that  a  man's  life  should  be  a 
man's  ease  and  that  no  privilege  was  really  great 
enough  to  take  his  breath  away.  The  world,  to  his 
vision,  was  a  great  bazaar  where  one  might  stroll 
about  and  purchase  handsome  things;  but  he  was 
no  more  conscious,  individually,  of  social  pressure 
than  he  admitted  the  claim  of  the  obligatory  pur- 
chase. He  had  not  only  a  dislike  but  a  sort  of  moral 
mistrust  of  thoughts  too  admonitory;  one  should  n't 
hunt  about  for  a  standard  as  a  lost  dog  hunts  for 
a  master.  One's  standard  was  the  idea  of  one's  own 
good-humoured  prosperity,  the  prosperity  which 
enabled  one  to  give  as  well  as  take.  To  expand 
without  too  much  ado  —  without  "mean"  timidity 

8? 


THE  AMERICAN 

on  one  side  or  the  bravado  of  the  big  appetite  on  the 
other  —  to  the  full  compass  of  any  such  experience 
as  was  held  to  stir  men's  blood  represented  his  nearest 
approach  to  a  high  principle.  He  had  always  hated 
to  hurry  to  catch  railroad-trains,  and  yet  had  always 
caught  them;  and  just  so  an  undue  solicitude  for 
the  right  side  seemed  a  sort  of  silly  dawdling  at  the 
station,  a  proceeding  properly  confined  to  women, 
foreigners  and  invalids.  All  this  admitted,  he  enjoyed 
his  journey,  when  once  he  had  fairly  entered  the  cur- 
rent, as  intimately  as  if  he  had  kept  a  diary  of  rap- 
tures. He  lounged  through  Belgium  and  Holland 
and  the  Rhineland,  through  Switzerland  and  North- 
ern Italy,  planning  about  nothing  and  seeing  all 
things.  The  guides  and  valets  de  place  found  him  an 
excellent  subject.  He  was  always  approachable, 
for  he  was  much  addicted  to  large  lapses  and  long 
intervals,  to  standing  about  in  the  vestibules  and 
porticoes  of  inns,  and  he  availed  himself  little  of  the 
opportunities  for  impressive  seclusion  so  liberally 
offered  in  Europe  to  gentlemen  travelling  with  long 
purses.  When  an  excursion,  a  church,  a  gallery,  a 
ruin  was  proposed  to  him  the  first  thing  he  usually 
did,  after  surveying  his  postulant  in  silence  and 
from  head  to  foot,  was  to  sit  down  at  a  little  table 
and  order  some  light  refreshment,  of  which  he  more 
often  than  not  then  forgot  to  partake.  The  cicerone, 
during  this  process,  commonly  retreated  to  a  respect- 
ful distance;  otherwise  I  am  not  sure  that  Newman 
would  not  have  bidden  him  sit  down  and  share,  sit 
down  and  tell  him  as  a  decent  creature  if  his  church 
or  his  gallery  were  really  worth  one's  trouble.  At  lasc 

88 


THE   AMERICAN 

he  rose  and  stretched  his  long  legs,  beckoned  to  the 
man  of  monuments,  looked  at  his  watch  and  fixed 
his  eye  on  his  adversary  "What  is  it  and  how  far  ?" 
And  whatever  the  case,  though  he  might  seem  to 
hesitate  he  never  declined  He  stepped  into  an  open 
cab,  made  his  conductor  sit  beside  him  to  answer 
questions,  bade  the  driver  go  fast  (he  had  a  particular 
aversion  to  slow  driving),  and  rolled,  in  all  prob- 
ability through  a  dusty  suburb,  to  the  goal  of  his 
pilgrimage.  When  the  goal  was  a  disappointment, 
when  the  church  was  meagre  or  the  ruin  a  heap  of 
rubbish,  he  never  protested  nor  berated  his  adviser; 
he  looked  with  an  impartial  eye  upon  great  monu- 
ments and  small,  made  the  guide  recite  his  lesson, 
listened  to  it  religiously,  asked  if  there  were  nothing 
else  to  be  seen  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  drove 
back  again  at  a  rattling  pace.  It  is  to  be  feared  that 
his  perception  of  the  difference  between  the  florid 
and  the  refined  had  not  reached  the  stage  of  con- 
fidence, and  that  he  might  often  have  been  seen  — 
as  we  have  already  seen  him  —  gazing  with  culpable 
serenity  at  inferior  productions.  The  wrong  occasion 
was  a  part  of  his  pastime  in  Europe  as  well  as  the 
right,  and  his  tour  was  altogether  a  pastime.  But 
there  is  sometimes  nothing  like  the  imagination  of 
those  people  who  have  none,  and  Newman  now  and 
then,  in  an  unguided  stroll  through  a  foreign  city, 
before  some  lonely,  sad-towered  church  or  some 
angular  image  of  one  who  had  rendered  civic  service 
in  an  unknown  past,  had  felt  a  singular  deep  com- 
motion. It  was  not  an  excitement,  not  a  perplexity; 
it  involved  an  extraordinary  sense  of  recreation. 


THE  AMERICAN 

He  encountered  by  chance  in  Holland  a  young 
American  with  whom  he  fell  for  a  time  into  a  tacit 
travellers'  partnership.  They  were  men  of  different 
enough  temper,  but  each  in  his  way  so  true  to  his 
type  that  each  might  seem  to  have  something  of 
value  to  contribute  to  the  association.  Newman's 
comrade,  whose  name  was  Babcock,  was  a  young 
Unitarian  minister;  a  small,  spare,  neatly-attired 
man,  with  a  strikingly  candid  countenance.  He  was 
a  native  of  Dorchester,  Massachusetts,  and  had 
spiritual  charge  of  a  small  congregation  in  another 
suburb  of  the  New  England  capital.  His  digestion 
was  weak  and  he  lived  chiefly  on  Graham  bread 
and  hominy  —  a  regimen  to  which  he  was  so  much 
attached  that  his  tour  seemed  to  him  destined  to  be 
blighted  when,  on  landing  on  the  Continent,  he 
found  these  delicacies  fail  to  flourish  under  the  table 
d'hote  system.  In  Paris  he  had  purchased  a  bag  of 
hominy  at  an  establishment  which  called  itself  an 
American  Agency  and  at  which  the  New  York  il- 
lustrated papers  were  also  to  be  procured,  and  he 
had  carried  it  about  with  him  and  shown  extreme 
serenity  and  fortitude  in  the  somewhat  delicate  posi- 
tion of  having  his  hominy  prepared  for  him  and 
served  on  odd  occasions  at  the  hotels  he  successively 
visited.  Newman  had  once  spent  a  morning,  in  the 
course  of  business,  at  Mr.  Babcock's  birthplace, 
and,  for  reasons  too  recondite  to  unfold,  the  memory 
of  his  visit  always  pressed  the  spring  of  mirth.  To 
carry  out  his  joke,  which  certainly  seems  poor  so 
long  as  it  is  not  explained,  he  used  often  to  address 
his  companion  as  "Dorchester."  Fellow-aliens  cling 

90 


THE    AMERICAN 

together,  on  a  strange  soil,  in  spite  of  themselves; 
but  it  was  probable  that  at  home  these  unnatural 
intimates  must  have  met  only  to  part.  They  had 
indeed  by  habit  and  form  as  little  in  common  as 
possible.  Newman,  who  never  reflected  on  such 
matters,  accepted  the  situation  with  great  equanimity, 
but  Babcock  used  to  meditate  over  it  privately;  used 
often  indeed  to  retire  to  his  room  early  in  the  evening 
for  the  express  purpose  of  considering  it  conscien- 
tiously and,  as  he  would  have  said,  with  detachment. 
He  was  not  sure  it  was  a  good  thing  for  him  to  have 
given  himself  up  so  unreservedly  to  our  hero,  whose 
way  of  taking  life  was  so  little  his  own. 

Newman  was  a  spirit  of  easy  power;  Mr.  Babcock 
even  at  times  saw  it  clear  that  he  was  one  of  nature's 
noblemen,  and  certainly  it  was  impossible  not  to 
feel  strongly  drawn  to  him  But  would  it  not  be 
desirable  to  try  to  produce  an  effect  on  him,  to  try  to 
quicken  his  moral  life  and  raise  his  sense  of  respon- 
sibility to  a  higher  plane?  He  liked  everything,  he 
accepted  everything,  he  found  amusement  in  every- 
thing; he  was  not  discriminating,  his  values  were 
as  vague  and  loose  as  if  he  had  carried  them  in  his 
trousers  pocket.  The  young  man  from  Dorchester 
accused  Newman  of  a  fault  that  he  considered  very 
grave  and  did  his  best  himself  to  avoid  —  of  what 
he  would  have  called  a  want  of  moral  reaction.  Poor 
Mr.  Babcock  was  extremely  fond  of  pictures  and 
churches,  and  kept  Mrs.  Jameson's  volumes  in  his 
trunk;  he  regarded  works  of  art  as  questions  and 
his  relations  with  them  as  experiences,  and  received 
peculiar  impressions  from  everything  he  saw.  Bui 

91 


THE   AMERICAN 

nevertheless  in  his  secret  soul  he  detested  Europe 
and  felt  an  irritated  need  to  protest  against  Newman's 
easy  homage  to  so  compromised  a  charmer,  mistress 
of  a  cynicism  that  appeared  at  times  to  have  made  him 
cynical.  Mr.  Babcock's  moral  malaise,  I  am  afraid, 
lay  deeper  than  where  any  definition  of  mine  can 
reach  it.  He  mistrusted  the  "European"  tempera- 
ment, he  suffered  from  the  "European"  climate,  he 
hated  the  "European"  dinner  hour;  "European" 
life  seemed  to  him  unscrupulous  and  impure.  And 
yet  he  had  what  he  called  an  intimate  sense  of  the 
true  beautiful  in  life,  and  as  this  element  was  often 
inextricably  associated  with  the  above  displeasing 
conditions,  as  he  wished  above  all  to  be  just  and 
dispassionate  and  as  he  was  furthermore  extremely 
bent  on  putting  his  finger  on  the  boundary-line,  in 
the  life  of  a  School,  between  the  sincere  time  and  the 
insincere,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  decide  that 
the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  were  utterly  rotten.  But 
he  thought  them  in  a  bad  way,  and  his  quarrel  with 
Newman  was  over  some  of  the  elements,  insidious 
forms  of  evil,  that  this  promiscuous  feeder  at  the 
feast  could  swallow  with  no  wry  face  Babcock  him- 
self really  knew  as  little  about  the  forms  of  evil,  in 
any  quarter  of  the  world,  as  about  the  forms  of  bank- 
ing; his  most  vivid  realisation  of  the  most  frequent 
form  had  been  the  discovery  that  one  of  his  college 
classmates,  a  student  of  architecture  in  Paris,  was 
carrying  on  a  love-afFair  with  a  young  woman  who 
did  n't  in  the  least  count  on  his  marrying  her.  Bab- 
cock  had  described  this  situation  to  Newman,  and 
our  hero  had  applied  an  epithet  marked  by  a  rough 

92 


THE   AMERICAN 

but  not  unfriendly  justice  to  the  girl.  The  next  day 
his  companion  asked  him  if  he  were  certain  he  had 
used  exactly  the  right  word  to  chaiacterise  the  young 
architect's  mistress.  Newman  wondered  and  seemed 
amused.  "There  are  a  great  many  words  to  express 
that  idea,"  he  said,  "you  can  take  your  choice!" 

**Oh,  i  mean,"  said  Babcock,  "was  she  possibly 
not  tu  be  considered  in  a  different  light  ?  Don't 
you  thmk  she  really  had  believed  in  his  higher 
nature  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  1  don't  know,"  Newman  replied. 
"Very  likely  she  had;  I've  no  doubt  she  judged  it 
by  her  own."  He  was  willing  to  meet  his  friend  on 
anv  view  of  her. 

"I  didn't  mean  that  either,"  said  Babcock;  "I'm 
not  sure  that  she  ha*  a  higher  nature  I'm  not  sure 
—  not  very  sure  —  every  one  has.  I  was  only  afraid 
I  might  have  seemed  yesterday  not  to  remember  — 
not  to  consider.  Well,  1  think  I'll  write  to  Percival 
about  it." 

And  he  had  written  to  Percival  (who  had  answered 
him  in  a  manner  that  was  indubitably  cynical)  and 
had  reflected  that  Newman  ought  n't  to  be  encouraged, 
after  all,  to  read  a  cheap  idealism  into  flagrant  cases 
of  immorality.  The  levity  and  brevity  of  his  com- 
rade's judgements  very  often  shocked  and  depressed 
him.  He  had  a  way  of  damning  people  without  further 
appeal,  or  else  of  appearing  almost  in  sympathy 
with  their  sinister  side,  which  seemed  unworthy  of  a 
man  whose  conscience  could  still  pretend  to  a  squirm. 
And  yet  poor  Babcock  yearned  toward  him  and 
remembered  that  even  if,  decidedly,  his  sensibiVity 

93 


THE   AMERICAN 

would  never  work  straight,  this  was  not  a  reason  for 
giving  him  up.  Goethe  recommended  seeing  human 
nature  in  the  most  various  forms,  and  Mr.  Babcoek 
thought  Goethe  perfectly  splendid.  He  often  tried  in 
odd  half-hours  of  conversation  to  explain  what  lie 
meant  by  some  of  his  principal  doubts,  but  it  was 
like  offering  to  read  from  a  technical  treatise.  The 
volume  might  deal  lucidly  with  Mi.  Babcock's  sub- 
ject, but  what  was  Mr.  Babcock's  subject  without 
Mr.  Babcock's  interest  in  it?  Newman  could  enter- 
tain a  respect  for  any  man's  subject  and  thought  his 
friend  fortunate  to  have  so  special  a  one  He  accepted 
all  the  proofs  of  its  importance  that  were  thus  anx- 
iously offered  him,  and  put  them  away  in  what  he 
supposed  a  very  safe  place;  but  poor  Babcoek  never 
afterwards  recognised  his  gifts  among  the  articles  that 
Newman  had  in  daily  use. 

They  travelled  together  through  Germany  and 
into  Switzerland,  where  for  three  or  four  weeks  they 
trudged  over  rough  passes  and  smooth  and  lounged 
by  the  edge  and  on  the  bosom  of  blue  lakes.  At  last 
they  crossed  the  Simplon  and  made  their  way  to 
Venice.  Mr.  Babcoek  had  become  gloomy  and  even 
a  trifle  irritable;  he  seemed  moody,  absent,  pre- 
occupied ;  he  got  his  plans  into  a  tangle  and  talked 
one  moment  of  doing  one  thing  and  the  next  of  doing 
another.  Newman  led  his  own  usual  life,  recklessly 
made  acquaintances,  took  his  ease  in  the  galleries 
and  churches,  spent  an  unconscionable  amount  of 
time  in  strolling  in  Piazza  San  Marco,  bought  several 
spurious  pictures  and  for  a  fortnight  enjoyed  Venice 
grossly.  One  evening,  coming  back  to  his  inn,  ne 

94 


THE   AMERICAN 

found  Babcock  waiting  for  him  in  the  little  garden 
beside  it.  The  young  man  walked  up  to  him,  looking 
very  dismal,  thrust  out  his  hand  and  said  with  solemn- 
ity that  he  was  afraid  they  must  part.  Newman 
expressed  his  surprise  and  regret;  he  wondered  why 
a  parting  had  become  necessary.  "Don't  be  afraid 
I'm  tired  of  you,"  he  said. 

"  You  're  not  tired  of  me  ?"  his  companion  asked, 
fixing  him  with  clear  but  almost  tragic  eyes. 

**  Why  the  deuce  should  1  be  ?  You're  a  very  nice 
man.  Besides,  I  don't  break  down  so  easily." 

"  We  don't  understand  each  other,"  said  poor 
Dorchester. 

"Don't  1  understand  you  f "  cried  Newman. 
"Why,  1  hoped  i  did.  But  what  if  1  don't;  where 's 
the  harm  r" 

"1  don't  understand  you"  said  Babcock.  And  he 
sat  down  and  rested  his  head  on  his  hand  and  looked 
up  mournfully  at  his  immeasurable  friend. 

"  But  why  should  you  mind  that  if  1  don't  ?" 

"Ic's  very  distressing  to  me.  It  keeps  me  in  a  state 
of  unrest.  Ii  irritates  me;  1  can't  settle  anything.  1 
don't  think  it's  good  for  me." 

"You  worry  too  much;  that's  what's  the  matter 
with  you,"  said  Newman. 

"Of  course  it  must  seem  so  to  you.  You  think  I 
take  all  questions  too  hard,  and  1  think  you  take  them 
too  superficially.  We  can  never  agree.  ' 

"But  we've  agreed  very  well  all  along." 

"No,  /  haven't  agreed,"  said  Babcock,  shaking 
his  head.   "I'm  very  uncomfortable.   1  ought  to  have 
separated  from  you  a  month  ago." 
<   95 


THE   AMERICAN 

**Oh,  shucks!  I'll  agree  to  anything!"  cried 
Newman. 

Mr.  Babcock  buried  his  head  in  both  hands.  At 
last,  looking  up,  "1  don't  think  you  appreciate  my 
position,"  he  observed.  "I  try  to  arrive  at  the  truth 
about  everything.  And  then  you  go  too  fast.  There 
are  things  of  which  you  take  too  little  account.  I 
feel  as  if  I  ought  to  go  over  ail  this  ground  we've 
traversed  again  by  myself.  I'm  afraid  1  have  made 
a  great  many  mistakes." 

"Oh,  you  need  n't  give  so  many  reasons,"  said 
Newman.  "You've  simply  had  enough  of  me. 
You've  all  your  right  to  that." 

"No,  no,  I've  not  had  enough  of  you!"  his  friend 
insisted.  "  It  would  be  very  wrong  of  me  to  have  had 
enough." 

"I  give  it  up!"  laughed  Newman.  "But  of  course 
it  will  never  do  to  go  on  making  mistakes.  Go  your 
way,  by  all  means.  I  shall  miss  you;  but  you've  seen 
I  make  friends  very  easily.  You'll  be  lonely  your- 
self ;  but  drop  me  a  line  when  you  feel  like  it,  and 
I'll  wait  for  you  anywhere." 

"1  think  I'll  go  back  to  Milan.  I'm  afraid  I 
did  n't  do  justice  to  Luini." 

"Pour  old  Luini!"  said  Newman. 

"1  mean  I'm  afraid  I  went  too  far  about  him.  I 
don't  think  he's  as  true  as  he  at  first  seems." 

"Luini?"  Newman  exclaimed.  "There's  some- 
thing in  the  look  of  his  genius  that's  like  the  face  of 
a  beautiful  woman.  It's  as  if  she  were  coming 
straight  at  you,  or  standing  very  ciose." 

His  companion  frowned  ajid  winced.    And  it  must 

96 


THE    AMERICAN 

be  added  that  this  was,  for  Newman,  an  unusually 
metaphysical  flight,  though  in  passing  through  Milan 
ne  had  found  a  great  attraction  in  the  painter.  "  There 
you  are  again!"  said  Mr.  Babcock.  "Yes,  we  had 
better  separate."  And  on  the  morrow  he  retraced  his 
steps  and  proceeded  to  his  revisions  of  judgement. 
But  presently  Newman  heard  from  him. 

My  dear  Mr.  Newman,  —  I  am  afraid  that  my 
conduct  at  Venice  a  week  ago  seemed  to  you  strange 
and  ungrateful,  and  1  wish  to  explain  my  position, 
which,  as  1  said  at  the  time,  1  do  not  think  you 
appreciate.  1  had  long  had  it  on  my  mind  to  pro- 
pose that  we  should  part  company,  and  this  step 
was  not  really  so  abrupt  as  it  appeared.  In  the  first 
place,  you  know,  I  am  travelling  in  Europe  on  funds 
supplied  by  my  congregation,  who  kindly  offered  me 
a  vacation  and  an  opportunity  to  enrich  my  mind 
with  the  treasures  of  nature  and  art  in  these  coun- 
tries. 1  feel  therefore  that  I  ought  to  use  my  time 
to  the  very  best  advantage.  I've  a  high  sense  of 
responsibility.  You  appear  to  care  only  for  the 
pleasure  of  the  hour,  and  you  give  yourself  up  to  it 
with  a  violence  which  I  confess  I'm  not  able  to 
emulate.  I  consider  that  I  must  arrive  at  some  con- 
clusion and  fix  my  convictions  on  certain  points. 
Art  and  Life  seem  to  me  intensely  serious  things,  and 
in  our  travels  in  Europe  we  should  especially  re- 
member the  rightful,  indeed  the  solemn,  message  of 
Art.  You  seem  to  hold  that  if  a  thing  amuses  you  for 
the  moment  this  is  all  you  need  ask  of  it;  and  your 
relish  for  mere  amusement  is  also  much  higher  than 

97 


THE   AMERICAN 

mine.  You  put  moreover  a  kind  of  reckless  finality 
into  your  pleasures  which  at  times,  1  confess,  has 
seemed  to  me  —  shall  1  say  it? — almost  appalling 
Your  way,  at  any  rate,  is  not  my  way,  and  it's  un- 
wise that  we  should  attempt  any  longer  to  pull  to- 
gether. And  yet  let  me  add  that  1  know  there  is 
1  great  deal  to  be  said  for  your  way;  1  have  felt  its 
attraction,  in  your  society,  very  strongly.  Save  for  this 
1  should  have  left  you  long  ago.  But  1  was  so  deeply 
perplexed.  1  hope  1  have  not  done  wrong.  1  feel  as 
if  I  had  a  great  deal  of  lost  time  to  make  up.  1  heg 
you  take  all  this  as  1  mean  it,  which  heaven  knows 
is  not  harshly.  1  have  a  great  personal  esteem  for 
you  and  hope  that  some  day  when  I  have  recovered 
my  balance  we  shall  meet  again.  But  1  must  recover 
my  balance  first.  I  hope  you  will  continue  to  enjoy 
your  travels;  only  du  remember  that  Life  and  Art 
are  extremely  solemn. 

Believe  me  your  sincere  friend  and  well-wisher, 

BENJAMIN  BABCOCK. 

P.  S.    I  am  very  unhappy  about  Luini. 

This  letter  produced  in  Newman's  mind  a  singular 
mixture  of  exhilaration  and  awe.  Mr.  Babcock's 
tender  conscience  at  first  seemed  to  him  as  funny  as 
a  farce,  and  his  travelling  back  to  Milan  only  to  get 
into  a  deeper  muddle  to  be,  for  reward  of  his  ped- 
antry, exquisitely  and  ludicrously  just.  Then  he 
reflected  that  these  are  mighty  mysteries;  that  pos- 
sibly he  himself  was  indeed  almost  unmentionably 
"appalling,"  and  that  his  manner  of  considering  the 
treasures  of  art  and  the  privileges  of  life  lacked  the 


THE   AMERICAN 

last*  or  perhaps  even  the  very  first,  refinement.  New- 
man had  a  grear  esteem,  after  all,  for  refinement,  and 
that  evening,  during  the  half-hour  that  he  watched 
the  star-sheen  on  the  warm  Adriatic,  he  felt  rebuked 
and  humiliated.  He  was  unable  to  decide  how  to 
answer  this  communication  His  good-nature  checked 
his  snubbing  his  late  companion's  earnestness,  and 
his  tough,  inelastic  sense  of  humour  forbade  his 
caking  it  seriously.  He  wrote  no  answer  at  all,  but 
a  day  or  two  after  he  found  in  a  curiosity-shop  a  gro- 
tesque little  statuette  in  ivory,  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, which  he  sent  off  to  Babcock  without  a  com- 
mentary. It  represented  a  gaunt,  ascetic-looking 
monk,  in  a  tattered  gown  and  cowl,  kneeling  with 
clasped  hands  and  pulling  a  portentously  long  face. 
It  was  a  wonderfully  delicate  piece  of  carving,  and 
in  a  moment,  through  one  of  the  rents  of  his  gown, 
you  espied  a  fat  capon  hung  round  the  monk's 
waist.  In  Newman's  intention  what  did  the  figure 
symbolise  ?  Did  it  mean  that  he  was  going  to  try  to 
be  as  impressed  with  the  solemnity  of  things  as  the 
monk  looked  at  first,  but  that  he  feared  he  should 
succeed  no  better  than  this  personage  proved  on  a 
closer  inspection  to  have  done  ?  It  is  not  supposable 
he  intended  a  satire  on  Babcock's  own  asceticism, 
for  this  would  have  been  a  truly  cynical  stroke.  He 
at  any  rate  made  his  late  companion  a  valuable  little 
present. 

He  went,  on  leaving  Venice,  through  the  Tyrol 
to  Vienna  and  then  returned,  westward,  through 
South  Germany.  The  autumn  found  him  at  Baden- 
Baden,  where  he  spent  several  weeks.  The  charming 

99 


THE   AMERICAN 

place  kept  him  from  day  to  day ;  he  was  looking 
about  him  and  deciding  what  to  do  for  the  winter. 
His  summer  had  been  very  full,  and  as  he  sat  under 
the  great  trees  beside  the  miniature  river  that  trickles 
past  the  Baden  flower-beds  he  slowly  rummaged  it 
over.  He  had  seen  and  done  a  great  deal,  enjoyed 
nnd  observed  a  great  deal;  he  felt  older,  yet  felt  it 
somehow,  even  at  the  age  he  had  reached,  as  an 
Advantage.  He  remembered  Mr.  Babcock  and  his 
desire  to  learn  the  great  lesson,  and  he  remembered 
also  that  he  had  profited  little  by  his  friend's  exhorta- 
tion to  cultivate,  the  same  respectable  habit.  Could  n't 
he  scrape  together  a  few  great  lessons  ?  Baden- 
Baden  was  the  prettiest  place  he  had  seen  yet,  and 
orchestral  music  in  the  evening,  under  the  stars,  was 
decidedly  a  great  institution.  This  was  the  lesson 
that  was  clearest.  But  he  went  on  to  reflect  that  he 
had  done  very  wisely  to  pull  up  stakes  and  come 
abroad;  the  world  was  apparently  such  an  interest- 
ing thing  to  see.  He  had  drawn  a  few  morals  of  his 
own;  he  could  n't  say  just  which,  but  he  had  them 
there  under  his  hat-band.  He  had  done  what  he 
wanted;  he  had  tackled  the  great  sights  and  closed 
with  the  great  occasions,  he  had  given  his  mind  a 
chance  to  "improve"  if  it  would.  He  fondly  believed 
it  had  improved  a  good  deal.  Yes,  these  waters  of  the 
free  curiosity  were  very  soothing,  and  he  would 
splash  in  them  till  they  ran  dry.  Forty-two  years  as 
he  was  on  the  point  of  numbering,  he  had  a  long 
course  in  his  eye,  and  if  the  haze  of  the  future  was 
thick  it  was  that  of  a  golden  afternoon.  Where  should 
he  take  the  world  next  ?  I  have  said  he  remembered 

100 


THE   AMERICAN 

the  eyes  of  the  lady  whom  he  had  found  standing  in 
Mrs.  Tristram's  drawing-room;  four  months  had 
elapsed  and  he  had  not  forgotten  them  yet.  He  had 
looked  —  he  had  made  a  point  of  looking  —  into  a 
great  many  other  eyes  in  the  interval,  but  the  only 
ones  he  thought  of  now  were  Madame  de  Cintre's. 
If  he  wanted  to  make  out  where  the  golden  afternoon 
hung  heaviest  would  n't  the  place  perhaps  be  in 
Madame  de  Cintre's  eyes  ?  He  would  certainly  find 
something  of  interest  there,  call  it  all  bravely  bright 
or  call  it  engagingly  obscure. 

But  there  came  to  him  sometimes  too,  through  this 
vague  rich  forecast,  the  thought  of  his  past  life  and 
the  long  array  of  years  (they  had  begun  so  early) 
during  which  he  had  had  nothing  in  his  head  but  his 
possible  "haul."  They  seemed  far  away  now,  for 
his  present  attitude  was  more  than  a  holiday,  it  was 
almost  a  repudiation.  He  had  told  Tom  Tristram 
the  pendulum  was  swinging  back,  and  the  back- 
ward swing,  visibly,  had  not  yet  ended.  Still,  the 
possibility  of  hauls,  which  had  dropped  in  the  other 
quarter,  wore  to  his  mind  a  different  aspect  at  different 
hours.  In  its  train  a  thousand  forgotten  episodes 
came  trooping  before  him.  Some  of  them  he  looked 
complacently  enough  in  the  face;  from  some  he 
averted  his  head.  They  were  old  triumphs  of  nerve, 
even  of  bluff,  mere  cold  memories  of  the  heat  of 
battle,  the  high  competitive  rage.  Some  of  them,  as 
they  lived  again,  he  felt  decidedly  proud  of;  he  ad- 
mired himself  as  if  he  had  been  looking  at  another 
man.  And  in  fact  many  of  the  qualities  that  make 
a  great  deed  were  there;  the  decision,  the  resolution 
»v  10 1 


THE   AMERICAN 

the  courage,  the  celerity,  the  clear  eye  and  the  firm 
hand.  Of  certain  other  performances  it  would  be 
going  too  far  to  say  he  was  ashamed  of  them,  for  he 
had  doubtless  never  had  a  stomach  for  dirty  work. 
He  had  been  blessed  from  the  first  with  a  natural 
impulse  to  disfigure  with  a  direct  unreasoning  blow 
the  painted  face  of  temptation.  In  no  man,  verily, 
could  a  want  of  the  stricter  scruple  have  been  less 
excusable.  Newman  knew  the  crooked  from  the 
straight  at  a  glance,  and  the  former  had  received 
at  his  hands,  early  and  late,  much  putting  in  its  place. 
None  the  less,  however,  some  of  his  memories  wore 
at  present  a  graceless  and  sordid  mien,  and  it  struck 
him  that  if  he  had  never  incurred  any  quite  inefface- 
able stain  he  had  never  on  the  other  hand  followed 
the  line  of  beauty,  as  a  sought  direction,  for  a  single 
mile  of  its  course.  He  had  spent  his  years  in  the  un- 
remitting effort  to  add  thousands  to  thousands,  and 
now  that  he  stood  so  well  outside  of  it  the  business 
of  mere  money-getting  showed  only,  in  its  ugliness, 
as  vast  and  vague  and  dark,  a  pirate-ship  with  lights 
turned  inward,  ft  is  very  well,  of  a  truth,  to  think 
meanly  of  money-getting  after  you  have  filled  your 
pockets,  and  our  friend,  it  may  be  said,  should  have 
begun  somewhat  earlier  to  moralise  with  this  super- 
iority. To  that  it  may  be  answered  that  he  might 
have  made  another  fortune  if  he  chose ;  and  we 
ought  to  add  that  he  was  not  exactly  moralising.  It 
had  come  back  to  him  simply  that  what  he  had  been 
looking  at  all  summer  was  a  very  brave  and  bristling 
world,  and  that  it  had  not  all  been  made  by  men 
"live"  in  his  old  mean  sense. 

102 


THE    AMERICAN 

During  his  stay  at  Baden-Baden  he  received  a 
letter  from  Mrs.  Tristram,  scolding  him  for  the 
scant  tidings  he  had  sent  his  friends  and  begging  to 
be  definitely  assured  that  he  had  not  even  thought  of 
not  wintering  within  call  of  the  Avenue  d'lena. 
Newman  replied  as  to  the  blast  of  a  silver  bugle. 

"I  supposed  you  knew  I  was  a  miserable  letter- 
writer  and  did  n't  expect  anything  of  me.  ]  guess 
I've  not  struck  off  twenty  letters  of  pure  friendship 
in  my  whole  life;  in  America  1  conducted  my  cor- 
respondence altogether  by  telegrams  and  by  dicta- 
tion to  a  shorthand  reporter.  This  is  a  letter  of 
friendship  undefiled;  you've  got  hold  of  a  curiosity — • 
you  could  really  get  something  for  it.  If  you  want  to 
know  everything  that  has  happened  to  me  these  three 
months  the  best  way  to  tell  you,  I  think,  would  be  to 
t>end  you  my  half-dozen  guide-books  with  my  pencil 
marks  in  the  margin.  Wherever  you  find  a  scratch  or 
a  cross  or  a  *  Beautiful!'  or  a  *  So  true!'  or  a  *Too 
thin!'  you  may  know  that  I've  had  some  one  or  other 
of  the  sensations  I  was  after.  That  has  been  about 
my  history  ever  since  I  left  you.  Belgium,  Holland, 
Switzerland,  Germany,  Italy —  I've  taken  the  whole 
list  as  the  bare-backed  rider  takes  the  paper  hoops 
at  the  circus,  and  I'm  not  even  yet  out  of  breath. 
I  carry  about  six  volumes  of  Ruskin  in  my  trunk; 
I've  seen  some  grand  old  things  and  shall  perhaps 
talk  them  over  this  winter  by  your  fireside.  You  see 
my  face  is  n't  altogether  set  against  Paris.  I  have  had 
all  kinds  of  plans  and  visions,  but  your  letter  has 
blown  most  of  them  away.  ^  U  ap  petit  vient  en  mange- 
says  your  proverb,  and  I  find  that  the  more 
103 


THE   AMERICAN 

sweet  things  I  taste  the  more  greedily  I  look  over  the 
table.  Now  that  I'm  in  the  shafts  why  should  n't 
I  trot  to  the  end  of  the  course  ?  Sometimes  I  think 
of  the  far  East  and  keep  rolling  the  names  of  Eastern 
cities  under  my  tongue;  Damascus  and  Bagdad, 
Trebizond,  Samarcand,  Bokhara.  1  spent  a  week 
last  month  in  the  company  of  a  returned  missionary 
who  told  me  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  be  loafing 
about  Europe  when  there  is  such  a  treat  to  be  had 
out  there.  I  do  want  more  treats,  but  I  think  frankly 
I  should  like  best  to  look  for  them  in  the  Rue  de 
1'Universite.  Do  you  ever  hear  from  that  handsome 
tall  lady  ?  If  you  can  get  her  to  promise  she'll  be  at 
home  the  next  time  I  call  I'll  go  back  to  Paris  straight. 
So  there  you  have  a  bargain.  I'm  more  than  ever 
in  the  state  of  mind  I  told  you  about  that  evening; 
I  want  a  companion  for  life  and  still  want  her  to  be 
a  star  of  the  first  magnitude.  I've  kept  an  eye  on  all 
the  possible  candidates  for  the  position  who  have 
come  up  this  summer,  but  none  of  them  has  filled 
the  bill  or  anything  like  it.  1  should  have  enjoyed  the 
whole  thing  a  thousand  times  more  if  I  had  had 
the  lady  just  mentioned  under  my  arm.  The  nearest 
approach  to  her  was  a  cultivated  young  man  from 
Dorchester  Mass.,  who,  however,  very  soon  de- 
manded of  me  a  separation  for  incompatibility  of 
temper.  He  told  me  I  had  n't  it  in  me  ever  to  raise 
a  "tone,"  and  he  really  made  me  half-believe  him. 
But  shortly  afterwards  I  met  an  Englishman  with 
whom  I  struck  up  an  acquaintance  which  at  first 
seemed  to  promise  well  —  a  very  bright  man  who 
writes  in  the  London  papers  and  knows  Paris  nearly 

104 


THE   AMERICAN 

as  well  as  Tristram.  We  knocked  about  for  a  week 
together,  but  he  very  soon  gave  me  up  in  disgust. 
He  pronounced  me  a  poor  creature,  incapable  of  the 
joy  of  life  —  he  talked  to  me  as  if  1  had  come  from 
Dorchester.  This  was  rather  bewildering.  Which  of 
my  two  critics  was  I  to  believe  ?  I  did  n't  worry  about 
it  and  very  soon  made  up  my  mind  they  don't  know 
everything.  You  come  nearer  that  than  any  one  I've 
met,  and  I  defy  any  one  to  pretend  I'm  wrong  when 
I'm  more  than  ever  your  faithful  friend  C  N.*' 


VI 


HE  gave  up  Bagdad  and  Bokhara  and,  returning 
to  Paris  before  the  autumn  was  over,  established 
himself  in  rooms  selected  by  Tom  Tristram  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  latter's  estimate  of  his  "social 
standing."  When  Newman  learned  that  this  occult 
attribute  was  to  be  taken  into  account  he  professed 
himself  utterly  incompetent  and  begged  Tristram  to 
relieve  him  of  the  care  of  it.  "  I  did  n't  know  I  *  stood/ 
socially,  at  all  —  I  thought  1  only  sat  round  inform- 
ally, rather  sprawling  than  anything  else.  Is  n't 
a  social  standing  to  know  some  two  or  three  thou- 
sand people  and  invite  them  to  dinner  ?  I  know  you 
and  your  wife  and  little  old  Mr.  Nioche,  who  gave 
me  French  lessons  last  spring.  Can  1  invite  you  to 
dinner  to  meet  each  other  ?  If  1  can  you  must  come 


to-morrow." 


"That's  not  very  grateful  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Tris- 
tram, "who  introduced  you  last  year  to  every  crea- 
ture of  my  acquaintance." 

"So  you  did;  I  had  quite  forgotten.  But  I  thought 
you  wanted  me  to  forget,"  said  Newman  in  that 
tone  of  surpassing  candour  which  frequently  marked 
his  utterance  and  which  an  observer  would  not  have 
known  whether  to  pronounce  a  whimsical  affectation 
of  ignorance  or  a  modest  aspiration  to  knowledge. 
"You  told  me  you  yourself  disliked  them  all." 

"Ah,  the  way  you  remember  what  1  say  is  at  least 
106 


THE  AMERICAN 

very  flattering.  But  in  future,"'  added  Mrs.  Tris- 
tram, "pray  forget  all  the  'mean'  things  and  remem- 
ber only  the  good.  It  will  be  easily  done  and  won't 
fatigue  your  memory.  Only  I  forewarn  you  that  if 
you  trust  my  husband  to  pick  out  your  rooms  you  're 
in  for  something  hideous." 

"Hideous,  darling?"  her  husband  cried. 

"To-day  I  utter  nothing  base;  otherwise  I  should 
use  stronger  language." 

"What  do  you  think  she  would  say,  Newman?" 
Tristram  asked.  "If  she  really  tried  now?  She  can 
polish  one  off  for  a  wretch  volubly  —  in  two  or  three 
languages;  that's  what  it  is  to  have  high  culture. 
It  gives  her  the  start  of  me  completely,  since  I  can't 
swear,  for  the  life  of  me,  except  in  pure  Anglo- 
Saxon.  When  I  get  mad  I  have  to  fall  back  on  our 
dear  old  mother  tongue.  There 's  nothing  like  it  after 
all." 

Newman  declared  that  he  knew  nothing  about 
tables  and  chairs  and  would  accept,  in  the  way  of  a 
lodging,  with  his  eyes  shut,  anything  that  Tristram 
should  offer  him.  This  was  partly  pure  veracity  on 
our  hero's  part,  but  it  was  also  partly  charity.  He 
knew  that  to  pry  about  and  count  casseroles  and 
make  people  open  windows,  to  poke  into  beds  and 
sofas  with  his  cane,  to  gossip  with  landladies  and 
ask  who  lived  above  and  who  below  —  he  knew  that 
this  was  of  all  pastimes  the  dearest  to  his  friend's 
heart,  and  he  felt  the  more  disposed  to  put  it  in  his 
way  as  he  was  conscious  he  had  suffered  the  warmth 
of  their  ancient  fellowship  somewhat  to  abate.  He 
had  besides  no  taste  for  upholstery;  he  had  even 

.  107 


THE   AMERICAN 

no  very  exquisite  sense  of  comfort  or  convenience. 
He  had  a  relish  for  luxury  and  splendour,  but  it  was 
satisfied  by  rather  gross  contrivances.  He  scarcely 
knew  a  hard  chair  from  a  soft,  and  used  an  art  iff 
stretching  his  legs  which  quite  dispensed  with  ad- 
ventitious aids.  His  idea  of  material  ease  was  to 
inhabit  very  large  rooms,  have  a  great  many  of 
them,  and  be  conscious  in  them  of  a  number  of 
patented  mechanical  devices,  half  of  which  he  should 
never  have  occasion  to  use.  The  apartments  should 
be  clear  and  high  and  what  he  called  open,  and  he 
had  once  said  that  he  liked  rooms  best  in  which 
you  should  want  to  keep  on  your  hat.  For  the  rest 
he  was  satisfied  with  the  assurance  of  any  respect- 
able person  that  everything  was  of  the  latest  model. 
Tristram  accordingly  secured  for  him  an  habitation 
over  the  price  of  which  the  Prince  of  Morocco  had 
been  haggling.  It  was  situated  on  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann,was  a  first  floor,  and  consisted  of  a  series 
of  rooms  gilded  from  floor  to  ceiling  a  foot  thick, 
draped  in  various  light  shades  of  satin  and  chiefly 
furnished  with  mirrors  and  clocks.  Newman  thought 
them  magnificent,  did  n't  haggle,  thanked  Tristram 
heartily,  immediately  took  possession,  and  had  one 
of  his  trunks  standing  for  three  months  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

One  day  Mrs.  Tristram  told  him  that  their  tall 
handsome  lady  had  returned  from  the  country  and 
that  she  had  met  her  three  days  before  coming  out  of 
the  church  of  Saint  Sulpice;  she  herself  having  jour- 
neyed to  that  distant  quarter  in  quest  of  an  obscure 
lace-mender  of  whose  skill  she  had  heard  high  praise. 

108 


THE   AMERICAN 

"And  how  were  those  intense  mild  eyes?"  New- 
man asked. 

"They  were  red  with  weeping  —  neither  more  nor 
less.  She  had  been  to  confession." 

"It  doesn't  tally  with  your  account  of  her,"  he 
said,  "that  she  should  have  sins  to  cry  about." 

"They  were  not  sins  —  they  were  sufferings." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"She  asked  me  to  come  and  see  her.  I  went  this 
morning." 

"And  what  does  she  suffer  from  ?" 

"I  did  n't  press  her  to  tell  me.  With  her,  some- 
how, one  is  very  discreet.  But  I  guessed  easily  enough. 
She  suffers  from  her  grim  old  mother  and  from  the 
manner  in  which  her  elder  brother,  the  technical  head 
of  the  family,  abets  and  hounds  on  the  Marquise. 
They  keep  at  her  hard,  they  keep  at  her  all  the  while. 
But  I  can  almost  forgive  them,  because,  as  I  told  you, 
she's  simply  a  saint,  and  a  persecution  is  all  that  she 
needs  to  bring  out  what  I  call  her  quality." 

"That's  a  comfortable  theory  for  her.  I  hope 
you'll  never  mention  it  to  the  old  folks.  But  why 
does  she  let  them  persecute  her  ?  Is  n't  she,  as  a 
married  woman,  her  own  mistress?" 

"Legally  yes,  I  suppose;  but  morally  no.  Ir 
France  you  may  never  say  Nay  to  your  mother, 
whatever  she  requires  of  you.  She  may  be  the  most 
abominable  old  woman  in  the  world  and  make  your 
life  a  purgatory;  but  after  all  she's  ma  mere,  and 
you've  no  right  to  judge  her.  You've  simply  to  obey. 
The  thing  has  a  fine  side  to  it.  Madame  de  Cintrc 
bows  her  head  and  folds  her  wings." 
^  IOQ 


THE   AMERICAN 

"Can't  she  at  least  make  her  brother  quit?" 

"Her  brother's  the  chef  de  la  famille,  the  head  of 
the  clan.  With  those  people  the  family's  everything; 
you  must  act  not  for  your  own  pleasure  but  for  the 
advantage  of  your  race  and  name." 

44  But  what  do  they  want  to  get  out  of  our  lovely 
friend?"  Newman  asked. 

44 Her  submission  to  another  marriage.  They're 
not  rich,  and  they  want  to  bring  more  money  into 
the  house." 

"There's  where  you  come  in,  my  boy!"  Tristram 
interposed. 

44 And  Madame  de  Ciritre  doesn't  see  it?"  New- 
man continued. 

44 She  has  been  sold  for  a  price  once;  she  naturally 
objects  to  being  sold  a  second  time,  it  appears  that 
the  first  time  they  greatly  bungled  their  bargain. 
M.  de  Cintre,  before  he  died,  managed  to  get  through 
almost  everything." 

"And  to  whom  do  they  want  then  to  marry  her 
now?" 

"I  thought  it  best  not  to  ask;  but  you  may  be  sure 
it  is  to  some  horrid  old  nabob  or  to  some  dissipated 
little  duke." 

44 There's  Mrs.  Tristram  as  large  as  life!"  her 
husband  cried.  44  Observe  the  wealth  of  her  imagin- 
ation. She  has  not  asked  a  single  question  —  it's 
vulgar  to  ask  questions  —  and  yet  she  knows  it  all 
inside  out.  She  has  the  history  of  Madame  de  Cintre's 
marriage  at  her  fingers'  ends.  She  has  seen  the  lovely 
Claire  on  her  knees  with  loosened  tresses  and  stream- 
ing eyes  and  the  rest  of  them  standing  over  her  with 

no 


THE   AMERICAN 

spikes  and  goads  and  red-hot  irons,  ready  to  come 
down  if  she  refuses  Bluebeard.  The  simple  truth 
is  that  they've  made  a  fuss  about  her  milliner's 
bill  or  refused  her  an  opera-box." 

Newman  looked  from  Tristram  to  his  wife  with 
a  certain  reserve  in  each  direction.  "Do  you  really 
mean,"  he  asked  of  the  latter,  "that  your  friend  is 
being  really  hustled  into  a  marriage  she  really  shrinks 
from?" 

"I  think  it  extremely  probable.  Those  people  are 
very  capable  of  that  sort  of  thing." 

"It's  like  something  in  a  regular  old  play,"  said 
Newman.  "That  dark  old  house  over  there  looks 
as  if  wicked  things  had  been  done  in  it  and  might 
be  done  again." 

"They  have  a  still  darker  old  house  in  the  coun- 
try, she  tells  me,  and  there,  during  the  summer, 
this  scheme  must  have  been  hatched." 

"Must  have  been;   mind  that!"  Tristram  echoed. 

"After  all,"  their  visitor  suggested  after  a  pause, 
"she  may  be  in  trouble  about  something  else." 

"If  it's  something  else  then  it's  something  worse." 
Mrs.  Tristram  spoke  as  with  high  competence. 

Newman,  silent  a  while,  seemed  lost  in  meditation. 
"Is  it  possible,"  he  asked  at  last,  "that  they  can  do 
that  sort  of  thing  over  here  ?  that  helpless  women 


are  thumb-screwed  —  sentimentally,  socially,  I  mean 
—  into  marrying  men  they  object  to." 

"Helpless  women,  all  over  the  world,  have  a  hard 
time  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Tristram.  "There's  plenty 
of  the  thumb-screw  for  them  everywhere." 

"A  great  deal  of  that  kind  of  thing  goes  OD  in 
^  ill 


THE  AMERICAN 

New  York,"  said  Tristram.  "Girls  are  bullied  or 
coaxed  or  bribed,  or  all  three  together,  into  marry- 
ing, for  money,  horrible  cads.  There's  no  end  of 
that  always  going  on  in  Fifth  Avenue,  and  other  bad 
things  besides.  The  Morals  of  Murray  Hill!  Some 
one  ought  to  show  them  up." 

"I  don't  believe  it!" — Newman  took  it  very 
gravely.  "I  don't  see  how,  in  America,  such  cases 
can  ever  have  occurred;  for  the  simple  reason  that 
the  men  themselves  would  be  the  first  to  make  them 
impossible.  The  American  man  sometimes  takes 
advantage  —  I  've  known  him  to.  But  he  does  n't 
take  advantage  of  women." 

"Listen  to  the  voice  of  the  spread  eagle!"  cried 
Tristram. 

"The  spread  eagle  should  use  his  wings,"  said  his 
wife.  "  He  should  fly  to  the  rescue  of  the  woman  of 
whom  advantage  is  being  taken  !" 

"  To  her  rescue  —  ? "    Newman  seemed  to  wonder. 

"  Pounce  down,  seize  her  in  your  talons  and  carry 
her  off.  Marry  her  yourself." 

Newman,  for  some  moments,  answered  nothing; 
but  presently,  "I  guess  she  has  heard  enough  of 
marrying,"  he  saic!.  "The  kindest  way  to  treat  her 
would  be  to  care  for  her  and  yet  never  speak  of  it. 
But  that  sort  of  thing's  infamous,"  he  added.  "It's 
none  of  my  business,  but  it  makes  me  feel  kind  of 
swindled  to  hear  of  it." 

He  heard  of  it,  however,  more  than  once  after- 
wards. Mrs.  Tristram  again  saw  Madame  de  Cintre 
and  again  found  her  looking  very  very  sad.  But  on 
these  occasions  there  had  been  no  tears;  the  intense 

112 


THE  AMERICAN 

mild  eyes  were  clear  and  still.  "She's  cold,  calm 
and  hopeless,"  Mrs.  Tristram  declared,  and  she 
added  that  on  her  mentioning  that  her  friend  Mr. 
Newman  was  again  in  Paris  and  was  faithful  in  his 
desire  to  make  Madame  de  Cintre's  acquaintance, 
this  lovely  woman  had  found  a  smile  in  her  despair 
and  expressed  her  regret  at  having  missed  his  visit 
in  the  spring  and  her  hope  that  he  had  not  lost  cour- 
age. "I  told  her  something  about  you,"  Newman's 
hostess  wound  up. 

"That's  a  comfort,"  he  patiently  answered.  "I 
seem  to  want  people  to  know  about  me." 

A  few  days  after  this,  one  dusky  autumn  after- 
noon, he  went  again  to  the  Rue  de  1'Universite. 
The  early  evening  had  closed  in  as  he  applied  for 
admittance  at  the  stoutly-guarded  Hotel  de  Belle- 
garde.  He  was  told  that  Madame  la  Comtesse  was 
at  home,  on  which  he  crossed  the  court,  entered 
the  further  door  and  was  conducted  through  a  ves- 
tibule, vast,  dim  and  cold,  up  a  broad  stone  staircase 
with  an  ancient  iron  balustrade,  to  an  apartment 
on  the  first  floor.  Announced  and  ushered  in, 
he  found  himself  in  a  large  panelled  boudoir,  at  one 
end  of  which  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  were  seated 
by  the  fire.  The  gentleman  was  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette; there  was  no  light  in  the  room  save  that  of  $ 
couple  of  candles  and  the  glow  from  the  hearth. 
Both  persons  rose  to  welcome  Newman,  who  in 
the  firelight  recognised  Madame  la  Comtesse.  She 
gave  him  her  hand  with  a  smile  which  seemed  in 
itself  an  illumination,  and,  pointing  to  her  com- 
panion, murmured  an  allusion,  "One  of  my  bro- 


THE  AMERICAN 

thers."  The  gentleman  struck  Newman  as  taking 
him,  with  great  good-nature,  for  a  friend  already 
made,  and  our  hero  then  perceived  him  to  be  the 
young  man  he  had  met  in  the  court  of  the  hotel  on  his 
former  visit,  the  one  who  had  appeared  of  an  easy 
commerce.  "  Mrs.  Tristram  has  often  mentioned  you 
to  us."  It  had  an  effect  of  prodigious  benignity  as 
Madame  de  Cintre  resumed  her  former  place. 

Newman,  noticing  in  especial  her  "us,"  began, 
after  he  had  seated  himself,  to  consider  what  in 
truth  might  be  his  errand.  He  had  an  unusual,  un- 
expected sense  of  having  wandered  into  a  strange 
corner  of  the  world.  He  was  not  given,  as  a  gen- 
eral thing,  to  "borrowing  trouble"  or  to  suspecting 
danger,  and  he  had  had  no  social  tremors  on  this 
particular  occasion.  He  was  not  without  presence 
of  mind,  though  he  had  no  formed  habit  of  prompt 
chatter.  But  his  exercised  acuteness  sometimes  pre- 
cluded detachment;  with  every  disposition  to  take 
things  simply  he  could  n't  but  feel  that  some  of  them 
were  less  simple  than  others.  He  felt  as  one  feels  in 
missing  a  step,  in  an  ascent,  where  one  has  expected 
to  find  it.  This  strange  pretty  woman  seated  at  fire- 
side talk  with  her  brother  in  the  grey  depths  of  her 
inhospitable-looking  house  —  what  had  he  to  say 
to  her  ?  She  seemed  enveloped  in  triple  defences 
of  privacy;  by  what  encouragement  had  he  pre- 
sumed on  his  having  effected  a  breach  ?  It  was  for 
a  moment  as  if  he  had  plunged  into  some  medium 
as  deep  as  the  ocean  and  must  exert  himself  to  keep 
from  sinking.  Meanwhile  he  was  looking  at  Madame 
la  Comtesse  and  she  was  settling  herself  in  her  chair 


THE  AMERICAN 

and  drawing  in  her  long  dress  and  vaguely,  rather 
indirectly,  turning  her  face  to  him.  Their  eyes  met; 
a  moment  later  she  looked  away  and  motioned  to 
her  brother  to  put  a  log  on  the  fire.  But  the  moment, 
and  the  glance  that  lived  in  it,  had  been  sufficient 
to  relieve  Newman  of  the  first  and  the  last  fit  of  sharp 
personal  embarrassment  he  was  ever  to  know.  He 
performed  the  movement  frequent  with  him  and 
which  was  always  a  symbol  of  his  taking  mental 
possession  of  a  scene  —  he  extended  his  long  legs. 
The  impression  his  hostess  had  made  on  him  at  their 
first  meeting  came  back  in  an  instant;  it  had  been 
deeper  than  he  knew.  She  took  on  a  light  and  a 
grace,  or,  more  definitely,  an  interest;  he  had  opened 
a  book  and  the  first  lines  held  his  attention. 

She  asked  him  questions  as  if  unable  to  do  less: 
how  lately  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Tristram,  how  long 
he  had  been  in  Paris,  how  long  he  expected  to  re- 
main there,  how  he  liked  it.  She  spoke  English 
without  an  accent,  or  rather  with  that  absence  of 
any  one  of  those  long  familiar  to  him  which  on  his 
arrival  in  Europe  had  struck  him  as  constituting  by 
itself  a  complete  foreignness  —  a  foreignness  that 
in  women  he  had  come  to  like  extremely.  Here  and 
there  her  utterance  slightly  exceeded  this  measure, 
but  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes  he  found  himself  wait- 
ing for  these  delicate  discords.  He  enjoyed  them, 
marvelling  to  hear  the  possible  slip  become  the 
charming  glide.  "You  have  a  beautiful  country  of 
your  own,"  she  safely  enough  risked. 

"Oh,  very  fine,  very  fine.  You  ought  to  come 
over  and  see  it." 

"5 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  shall  never  go  over  and  see  it,"  she  answered 
with  a  smile. 

"Well,  why  should  n't  you  ?" 

"We  don't  travel;   especially  so  far." 

"But  you  go  away  sometimes;  you  don't  always 
^tay  right  here  ?" 

"I  go  away  in  summer  —  a  little  way,  to  the 
country." 

He  wanted  to  ask  her  something  more,  something 
personal  and  going  rather  far  —  he  hardly  knew 
what.  "  Don't  you  find  it  rather  lifeless  here,"  he  said ; 
"so  far  from  the  street?"  Rather  "lonesome"  he 
was  going  to  say,  but  he  deflected  nervously,  for 
discretion,  and  then  felt  his  term  an  aggravation 

"Yes,  it's  very  lifeless,  if  you  mean  very  quiet; 
but  that's  exactly  what  we  like." 

"Ah,  that's  exactly  what  you  like,"  he  repeated. 
He  was  touched  by  her  taking  it  so. 

"Besides,  I've  lived  here  all  my  life." 

"Lived  here  all  your  life,"  Newman  found  he 
could  but  echo. 

"I  was  born  here,  and  my  father  was  born  here 
before  me,  and  my  grandfather  and  my  great-grand- 
fathers. Were  they  not,  Valentin  ? "  —  and  she  ap- 
pealed to  her  brother. 

"Yes,  it  seems  a  condition  of  our  being  born  at 
all,"  the  young  man  smiled  as  he  rose  and  threw  the 
remnant  of  his  cigarette  into  the  fire.  He  remained 
leaning  against  the  chimney-piece,  and  an  observer 
would  have  guessed  that  he  wished  to  take  a  better 
look  at  their  guest,  whom  he  covertly  examined 
while  he  stroked  his  moustache. 

116 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Your  house  is  tremendously  old  then?"  New- 
man pursued. 

"How  old  is  it,  brother?"  asked  Madame  de 
Cintre. 

The  young  man  took  the  two  candles  from  the 
mantel,  lifted  one  high  in  each  hand  and  looked  up, 
above  the  objects  on  the  shelf,  toward  the  cornice  of 
the  room.  The  chimney-piece  was  in  white  marble 
of  the  Louis-Quinze  period,  but  much  aloft  was  a 
panelling  of  an  earlier  date,  quaintly  carved,  painted 
white  and  here  and  there  gilded.  The  white  had 
turned  to  yellow  and  the  gilding  was  tarnished. 
On  the  top  the  figures  ranged  themselves  into  a 
shield,  on  which  an  armorial  device  was  cut.  Above 
it,  in  relief,  was  a  number  —  1627.  "There  you 
have  a  year,"  said  the  young  man.  "That's  old  or 
new,  according  to  your  point  of  view." 

"Well,  over  here,"  Newman  replied,  "one's  point 
of  view  gets  shifted  round  considerably."  And  he 
threw  back  his  head  and  looked  about.  "Your  house 
is  of  a  very  fine  style  of  architecture." 

"Are  you  interested  in  questions  of  architecture  ?" 
asked  the  gentleman  at  the  chimney-piece. 

"Well,  I  took  the  trouble  this  summer  to  ex- 
amine —  as  well  as  I  can  calculate  —  some  four 
hundred  and  seventy  churches.  Do  you  call  that  in- 
terested ?" 

"Perhaps  you're  interested  in  religion,"  said  his 
amiable  host. 

Newman  thought.  "Not  actively."  He  found 
himself  speaking  as  if  it  were  a  railroad  or  a  mine; 
so  that  the  next  moment,  to  correct  this,  "  Are  you  a 

"7 


THE  AMERICAN 

Roman  Catholic,  madam  ?"  he  inquired  of  Madame 
de  Cintre. 

"I'm  of  the  faith  of  my  fathers,"  she  gravely 
replied. 

He  was  struck  with  a  sort  of  richness  in  the  effect 
of  it  —  he  threw  back  his  head  again  for  contem- 
plation. "Had  you  never  noticed  that  number  up 
there  ? "  he  presently  asked. 

She  hesitated  a  moment  and  then,  "In  former 
years,"  she  returned. 

Her  brother  had  been  watching  Newman's  move- 
ment. "Perhaps  you  would  like  to  examine  the 
house." 

Our  friend  slowly  brought  down  his  eyes  for  re- 
cognition of  this;  he  received  the  impression  that 
the  young  man  at  the  chimney-piece  had  his  forms, 
and  sought  his  own  opportunities,  of  amusement. 
He  was  a  handsome  figure  of  a  young  man;  his  face 
wore  a  smile,  his  moustachios  were  curled  up  at 
the  ends  and  there  was  something  —  more  than  the 
firelight  —  that  played  in  his  eyes.  "Damn  his 
French  impudence!"  Newman  was  on  the  point  of 
inwardly  growling.  "What  the  deuce  is  he  grin- 
ning at?"  He  glanced  at  Madame  de  Cintre,  who 
was  only  looking  at  the  floor.  But  she  raised  her  eyes, 
which  again  met  his,  till  she  carried  them  to  her 
brother.  He  turned  again  to  this  companion  and 
observed  that  he  strikingly  resembled  his  sister. 
This  was  in  his  favour,  and  our  hero's  first  impres- 
sion of  Count  Valentin  had  moreover  much  engaged 
him.  His  suspicion  expired  and  he  said  he  should 
rejoice  to  see  the  house. 

118 


THE  AMERICAN 

The  young  man  surrendered  to  gaiety,  laying  his 
hand  again  on  a  light.  "It  will  repay  your  curiosity. 
Come  then." 

But  Madame  de  Cintre  rose  quickly  and  grasped 
his  arm.  "Ah  Valentin,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"To  show  Mr.  Newman  the  house.  It  will  be  very 
amusing  to  show  Mr.  Newman  the  house." 

She  kept  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  turned  to  their 
visitor  with  a  smile.  "Don't  let  him  take  you;  you 
won't  find  it  remarkable.  It  is  a  musty  old  house 
like  any  other." 

"Ah,  not  like  any  other,"  the  Count  still  gaily 
protested.     "It's  full  of   curious    things.     Besides 
a  visit  like  Mr.  Newman's  is  just  what  it  wants  and 
has  never  had.  It 's  a  rare  chance  all  round." 

"You  're  very  wicked,  brother,"  Madame  de  Cintre 
insisted. 

"Nothing  venture,  nothing  have!"  cried  the  young 
man.  "Will  you  come?" 

She  stepped  toward  Newman,  clasping  her  hands 
and  speaking,  to  his  sense,  with  an  exquisite  grave 
appeal.  "Would  n't  you  prefer  my  society  here  by 
my  fire  to  stumbling  about  dark  passages  after  — 
well,  after  nothing  at  all  ? " 

"A  hundred  times!  We'll  see  the  house  some 
other  day." 

The  young  man  put  down  his  light  with  mock 
solemnity,  and,  shaking  his  head,  "Ah,  you've  de- 
feated a  great  scheme,  sir!"  he  sighed. 

"A  scheme?   I  don't  understand,"  said  Newman, 

"You'd  have  played  your  part  in  it  all  the  better. 
Perhaps  some  day  I  shall  have  a  chance  to  explain  it." 

IIQ 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Be  quiet  and  ring  for  tea,"  Madame  de  Cintre 
gently  concluded. 

Count  Valentin  obeyed,  and  presently  a  servant 
brought  in  a  tray,  which  he  placed  on  a  small  table. 
Madame  de  Cintre,  when  he  had  gone,  busied  her- 
self, from  her  place,  with  making  tea.  She  had  but 
just  begun  when  the  door  was  thrown  open  and  a 
lady  rushed  in  with  a  loud  rustling  sound.  She 
stared  at  Newman,  gave  a  little  nod  and  a  "Mon- 
sieur!" and  then  quickly  approached  Madame  de 
Cintre  and  presented  her  forehead  to  be  kissed. 
Madame  de  Cintre  saluted  her,  but  continued  to 
watch  the  kettle.  The  rustling  lady  was  young  and 
pretty,  it  seemed  to  Newman;  she  wore  her  bonnet 
and  cloak  and  a  train  of  royal  proportions.  She  be- 
gan to  talk  rapidly  in  French.  "Oh,  give  me  some 
tea,  my  beautiful  one,  for  the  love  of  God '  I  'm 
aneantie,  annihilated."  Newman  found  himself  quite 
unable  to  follow  her;  she  spoke  much  less  distinctly 
than  M.  Nioche. 

"That's  my  wonderful  sister-in-law,"  the  young 
man  mentioned  to  him. 

"She's  very  attractive,"  Newman  promptly  re- 
sponded. 

"Fascinating,"  the  Count  said;  and  this  time  again 
his  guest  suspected  him  of  latent  malice.  His  sister-in- 
law  came  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  fire  with 
her  tea  in  her  hand,  holding  it  out  at  arm's  length 
so  that  she  might  n't  spill  it  on  her  dress  and  utter- 
ing little  cries  of  alarm.  She  placed  the  cup  on  the 
chimney  and  began  to  unpin  her  veil  and  pull  off  her 
gloves,  looking  meanwhile  at  Newman.  "  Is  there  any- 

120 


THE  AMERICAN 

thing  I  can  do  for  you,  my  dear  lady?"  the  young 
man  asked  with  quite  extravagant  solicitude. 

"Present  me  to  monsieur,"  said  his  sister-in-law. 
And  then  when  he  had  pronounced  their  visitor's 
name:  "I  can't  curtsey  to  you,  monsieur,  or  I  shall 
spill  my  tea.  So  Claire  receives  strangers  like  this  ?" 
she  covertly  added,  in  French  to  her  brother-in-law. 

"Apparently!  Is  n't  it  fun  ?"  he  returned  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

Newman  stood  a  moment  and  then  approached 
Madame  de  Cintre,  who  looked  up  at  him  as  if  she 
were  thinking  of  something  to  say.  She  seemed  to 
think  of  nothing,  however  —  she  simply  smiled.  He 
sat  down  near  her  and  she  handed  him  his  cup.  For 
a  few  moments  they  talked  about  that,  and  mean- 
while he  kept  taking  her  in.  He  remembered  what 
Mrs.  Tristram  had  told  him  of  her  "perfection" 
and  of  her  having,  in  combination,  all  the  brilliant 
things  that  he  dreamed  of  finding.  This  made  him 
consider  her  not  only  without  mistrust,  but  with- 
out uneasy  conjectures;  the  presumption,  from  the 
first  moment  he  looked  at  her,  had  been  so  in  her 
favour.  And  yet  if  she  was  beautiful  it  was  not  from 
directly  dazzling  him.  She  was  tall  and  moulded  in 
long  lines;  she  had  thick  fair  hair  and  features  un- 
even and  harmonious.  Her  wide  grey  eyes  were  like 
a  brace  of  deputed  and  garlanded  maidens  waiting 
with  a  compliment  at  the  gate  of  a  city,  but  they 
failed  of  that  lamplike  quality  and  those  many-col- 
oured fires  that  light  up,  as  in  a  constant  celebra- 
tion of  anniversaries,  the  fair  front  of  the  conquering 
type.  Madame  de  Cintre  was  of  attenuated  substance 

•  121 


THE  AMERICAN 

and  might  pass  for  younger  than  she  probably  was. 
In  her  whole  person  was  something  still  young  and 
still  passive,  still  uncertain  and  that  seemed  still  to 
expect  to  depend,  and  which  yet  made,  in  its  dig- 
nity, a  presence  withal,  and  almost  represented,  in  its 
serenity,  an  assurance.  What  had  Tristram  meant, 
Newman  wondered,  by  calling  her  proud  ?  She  was 
certainly  not  proud,  now,  to  him;  or  if  she  was  it 
was  of  no  use  and  lost  on  him.  she  must  pile  it 
up  higher  if  she  expected  him  to  mind  it.  She  was 
a  clear,  noble  person  —  it  was  very  easy  to  get  on 
with  her.  And  was  she  then  subject  to  that  appli- 
cation of  the  idea  of  "rank"  which  made  her  a 
kind  of  historical  formation  ?  Newman  had  known 
rank  but  in  the  old  days  of  the  army  —  where  it 
had  not  always  amounted  to  very  much  either;  and 
he  had  never  seen  it  attributed  to  women,  unless 
perhaps  to  two  or  three  rather  predominant  wives 
of  generals.  But  the  designations  representing  it  in 
France  struck  him  as  ever  so  pretty  and  becoming, 
with  a  property  in  the  bearer,  this  particular  one, 
that  might  match  them  and  make  a  sense  —  some- 
thing fair  and  softly  bright,  that  had  motions  of  ex- 
traordinary lightness  and  indeed  a  whole  new  and 
unfamiliar  play  of  emphasis  and  pressure,  a  new 
way,  that  is,  of  not  insisting  and  not  even,  as  one 
might  think,  wanting  or  knowing,  yet  all  to  the  effect 
of  attracting  and  pleasing.  She  had  at  last  thought  of 
something  to  say.  4<  Have  you  many  friends  in  Paris 
—  so  that  you  go  out  a  great  deal  ?" 

He  considered  —  about  going  out.   "Do  you  mean 
if  I  go  to  parties  —  ? " 

122 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  Do  you  go  dans  le  monde,  as  we  say  ?  " 

"I've  seen  a  good  many  people.  Mrs.  Tristram 
at  least  tells  me  I  have.  She  has  taken  me  about.  I  do 
whatever  she  bids  me." 

"  By  yourself  then  you're  not  fond  of  amusements  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  of  some  sorts.  I  'm  not  fond  of  very  fast 
rushing  about,  or  of  sitting  up  half  the  night;  I'm 
too  old  and  too  heavy.  But  I  want  to  be  amused; 
I  came  to  Europe  for  that." 

She  appeared  to  think  a  moment,  and  then  with 
a  smile:  "  But  I  thought  one  can  be  so  much  amused 
in  America." 

"I  could  n't;  perhaps  I  was  too  much  part  of  the 
show.  That's  never  such  fun,  you  know,  for  the 
animals  themselves." 

At  this  moment  young  Madame  de  Bellegarde 
came  back  for  another  cup  of  tea,  accompanied  by 
Count  Valentin.  Madame  de  Cintre,  when  she  had 
served  her,  began  to  talk  again  with  Newman  and 
recalled  what  he  had  last  said.  "In  your  own  coun- 
try you  were  very  much  occupied  ?" 

"I  was  in  active  business.  I've  been  in  active 
business  since  I  was  fifteen  years  old." 

"And  what  was  your  active  business?"  asked 
Madame  de  Bellegarde,  who  was  decidedly  not  so 
pretty  as  Madame  de  Cintre. 

"I've  been  in  everything,"  said  Newman.  "At 
one  time  I  sold  leather;  at  one  time  I  manufactured 
wash-tubs." 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  made  a  little  grimace. 
"Leather?  I  don't  like  that.  Wash-tubs  are  better. 
I  prefer  the  smell  of  soap.  I  hope  at  least  they  made 
-  123 


THE  AMERICAN 

your  fortune."  She  rattled  this  off  with  the  air  of  a 
woman  who  had  the  reputation  of  saying  everything 
that  came  into  her  head,  and  with  a  strong  French 
accent. 

Newman  had  spoken  with  conscientious  clearness, 
but  Madame  de  Bellegarde's  tone  made  him  go  on, 
after  a  meditative  pause,  with  a  certain  light  grim- 
ness  of  pleasantry.  "  No,  I  lost  money  on  wash-tubs, 
but  I  came  out  pretty  square  on  leather." 

"I've  made  up  my  mind,  after  all,"  said  the  Mar- 
quise, "that  the  great  point  is  —  how  do  you  call  it  ? 
—  to  come  out  square.  I  'm  on  my  knees  to  money 
and  my  worship  is  as  public  as  you  like.  If  you  have 
it  I  ask  no  questions.  For  that  I  'm  a  real  radical  — 
like  you,  monsieur;  at  least  as  I  suppose  you.  My 
belle-sceur  is  very  proud;  but  I  find  that  one  gets 
much  more  pleasure  in  this  sad  life  if  one  does  n't 
make  too  many  difficulties." 

"Goodness  gracious,  chere  madame,  how  you  rush 
in!"  Count  Valentin  gaily  groaned. 

"He's  a  man  one  can  speak  to,  I  suppose,  since 
my  sister  receives  him,"  the  lady  more  covertly  an- 
swered. "  Besides,  it 's  very  true;  those  are  my  ideas." 

"Ah,  you  call  them  ideas?"  the  young  man  re- 
turned in  a  tone  that  Newman  thought  lovely. 

"  But  Mrs.  Tristram  told  me  you  had  been  in  the 
army  —  in  your  great  war,"  his  beautiful  sister  pur- 
sued. 

"Yes,  but  that  was  not  business  —  in  the  paying 
sense.  I  could  n't  afford  it  often." 

"Very  true!"  said  Count  Valentin,  who  looked 
at  our  hero  from  head  to  foot  with  his  peculiar 

124 


THE  AMERICAN 

facial  play,  in  which  irony  and  urbanity  seemed  per- 
plexingly commingled.  "Are  you  a  brave  man?" 

"Well,  try  me." 

"Ah  then,  there  you  are!  In  that  case  come 
again." 

"Dear  me,  what  an  invitation!"  Madame  de 
Cintre  murmured  with  a  smile  that  betrayed  em- 
barrassment. 

"Oh,  I  want  Mr.  Newman  to  come  —  particu- 
larly," her  brother  returned.  "It  will  give  me  great 
pleasure.  I  shall  feel  the  loss  if  I  miss  one  of  his  visits. 
But  I  maintain  he  must  be  of  high  courage.  A  stout 
heart,  sir,  and  a  firm  front."  And  he  offered  New- 
man his  hand. 

"I  shall  not  come  to  see  you;  I  shall  come  to  see 
Madame  de  Cintre,"  said  Newman,  bent  on  dis- 
tinctness. 

"You  '11  need,  exactly  for  that,  all  your  arms." 

"Ah  de  grace!11  she  appealed. 

"Decidedly,"  cried  Madame  de  Bellegarde,  "I'm 
the  only  person  here  capable  of  saying  something 
polite!  Come  to  see  me;  you  '11  need  no  courage 
at  all,  monsieur." 

Newman  gave  a  laugh  which  was  not  altogether 
an  assent;  then,  shaking  hands  all  round,  marched 
away.  Madame  de  Cintre  failed  to  take  up  her  sis- 
ter's challenge  to  be  gracious,  but  she  looked  with 
a  certain  troubled  air  at  the  retreating  guest. 


VII 


ONE  evening  very  late,  about  five  days  after  this 
episode,  Newman's  servant  brought  him  a  card  which 
proved  to  be  that  of  young  M.  de  Bellegarde.  When 
a  few  moments  later  he  went  to  receive  his  visitor 
he  found  him  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  greatest 
of  his  gilded  saloons  and  eyeing  it  from  cornice  to 
carpet.  Count  Valentin's  face,  it  seemed  to  him,  ex- 
pressed not  less  than  usual  a  sense  of  the  inherent 
comedy  of  things.  "What  the  devil  is  he  laughing 
at  now?"  our  hero  asked  himself;  but  he  put  the 
question  without  acrimony,  for  he  felt  in  Madame 
de  Cintre's  brother  a  free  and  adventurous  nature, 
and  he  had  a  presentiment  that  on  this  basis  of  the 
natural  and  the  bold  they  were  destined  to  under- 
stand each  other.  Only  if  there  was  food  for  mirth 
he  wished  to  have  a  glimpse  of  it  too. 

"To  begin  with,"  said  the  young  man  as  he  ex- 
tended his  hand,  "have  1  come  too  late?" 

"Too  late  for  what?" 

"To  smoke  a  cigar  with  you." 

"You  would  have  to  come  early  to  do  that,"  New- 
man said.    "1  don't  know  how  to  smoke." 

"Ah,  you're  a  strong  man!" 

"  But  I  keep  cigars,"  he  added.  "  Sit  down." 

His  visitor  looked  about.   "Surely  I  may  n't  smoke 
here." 

"What's  the  matter  ?    Is  the  room  too  small?" 
126 


THE  AMERICAN 

"It's  too  large.  It's  like  smoking  in  a  ball-room 
or  a  church." 

"That's  what  you  were  laughing  at  just  now?" 
Newman  asked;  "the  size  of  my  room  ?" 

"It's  not  size  only,  but  splendour  and  harmony, 
beauty  of  detail.  It  was  the  smile  of  sympathy  and 
of  admiration." 

Newman  looked  at  him  harder  and  then,  "So  it 
is  very  ridiculous?"  he  enquired. 

"Ridiculous,  my  dear  sir?    It's  sublime." 

"That  of  course  is  the  same  thing,"  said  New- 
man. "Make  yourself  comfortable.  Your  coming 
to  see  me,  I  take  it,  is  an  act  of  sympathy  and  a  sign 
of  confidence.  You  were  not  obliged  to.  Therefore 
if  anything  round  here  amuses  you  it  will  be  all  in 
a  pleasant  way.  Laugh  as  loud  as  you  please;  I  like 
to  have  my  little  entertainment  a  success.  Only  I 
must  make  this  request:  that  you  explain  the  joke 
to  me  as  soon  as  you  can  speak.  I  don't  want  to 
lose  anything  myself." 

His  friend  gave  him  a  long  look  of  unresentful 
perplexity.  He  laid  his  hand  on  his  sleeve  and  seemed 
on  the  point  of  saying  something,  but  suddenly 
checked  himself,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  puffed 
at  his  cigar.  At  last,  however,  breaking  silence, 
"Certainly,"  he  began,  "my  coming  to  see  you  is  the 
frank  demonstration  you  recognise.  I  have  been, 
nevertheless,  in  a  measure  encouraged  —  or  urged  — 
to  the  step.  My  sister,  in  a  word,  has  asked  it  of  me, 
and  a  request  from  my  sister  is,  for  me,  a  law.  I  was 
near  you  just  now  and  I  observed  lights  in  what  I 
supposed  to  be  your  rooms.  It  was  not  a  ceremonious 
^  127 


THE  AMERICAN 

hour  for  making  a  call,  but  I  was  not  sorry  to  do 
something  that  would  show  me  as  not  performing 
a  mere  ceremony." 

"Well,  here  I  am  for  you  as  large  as  life,"  saitf 
Newman  as  he  extended  his  legs. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  the  young  man 
went  on,  "by  giving  me  unlimited  leave  to  laugh. 
Certainly  I'm  a  great  laugher;  it's  the  only  way, 
in  general,  is  n't  it  ?  not  to  —  well,  not  to  crever 
d* ennui.  But  it's  not  in  order  that  we  may  laugh 
together  —  or  separately  —  that  I  have,  I  may  say, 
sought  your  acquaintance.  To  speak  with  a  con- 
fidence and  a  candour  which  I  find  rapidly  getting 
the  better  of  me,  you  have  interested  me  without 
having  done  me  the  honour,  I  think,  in  the  least 
to  try  for  it  —  by  having  acted  so  consistently  in 
your  own  interest:  that,  I  mean,  of  your  enlight- 
ened curiosity."  All  this  was  uttered,  to  Newman's 
sense,  with  a  marked  proficiency,  as  from  a  habit  of 
intercourse  that  was  yet  not  "office"  intercourse, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  speaker's  excellent  English,  with 
the  perfect  form,  as  our  friend  supposed,  of  the 
superlative  Frenchman;  but  there  was  at  the  same 
time  something  in  it  of  a  more  personal  and  more 
pressing  intention.  What  this  might  prove  to  have 
foi  him  Newman  suddenly  found  himself  rather 
yearning  to  know.  M.  de  Bellegarde  was  a  foreigner 
to  the  last  roll  of  his  so  frequent  rotary  r;  and  if  he 
had  met  him  out  in  bare  Arizona  he  would  have  felt 
it  proper  to  address  him  with  a  "How-d'ye-do, 
Mosseer?"  Yet  there  was  that  in  his  physiognomy 
which  seemed  to  suspend  a  bold  bridge  of  gilt  wire 

128 


THE  AMERICAN 

over  the  impassable  gulf  produced  by  difference  of 
race.  He  was  but  middling  high  and  of  robust  and 
agile  aspect.  Valentin  de  Bellegaide,  his  host  was 
afterwards  to  learn,  had  a  mortal  dread  of  not  keep- 
ing the  robustness  down  sufficiently  to  keep  the 
agility  up;  he  was  afraid  of  growing  stout;  he  was 
too  short  a  story  as  he  said,  to  afford  an  important 
digression.  He  rode  and  fenced  and  practised  gym- 
nastics with  unremitting  zeal,  and  you  could  n*t 
congratulate  him  on  his  appearance  without  making 
him  turn  pale  at  yout  imputation  of  its  increase.  He 
had  a  round  head,  high  above  the  ears,  a  crop  of 
hair  at  once  dense  and  silky,  a  broad,  low  forehead, 
a  short  nose,  of  the  ironical  and  enquiring  rather 
than  of  the  dogmatic  or  sensitive  cast,  and  a  mous- 
tache as  delicate  as  that  of  a  page  in  a  romance.  He 
resembled  his  sister  riot  in  feature,  but  in  the  ex- 
pression of  his  fair  open  eyes,  completely  void,  as 
they  were  in  his  case,  of  introspection,  and  in  the  fine 
freshness  of  his  smile,  which  was  like  a  gush  of  crys- 
talline water.  The  charm  of  his  face  was  above  all 
in  its  being  intensely,  being  frankly,  ardently,  gal- 
lantly alive.  You  might  have  seen  it  in  the  form  of 
a  bell  with  the  long  "pull"  dangling  in  the  young 
man's  conscious  soul;  at  a  touch  of  the  silken  cord 
the  silver  sound  would  fill  the  air.  There  was  some- 
thing in  this  quick  play  which  assured  you  he  was 
not  economising  his  consciousness,  not  living  in  a 
corner  of  it  to  spare  the  furniture  of  the  rest.  He  waf 
squarely  encamped  in  the  centre  and  was  keeping 
open  house.  When  he  flared  into  gaiety  it  was  the 
movement  of  a  hand  that  in  emptying  a  cup  turn* 
•*  120 


THE  AMERICAN 

it  upside  down;  he  gave  you  all  the  strength  of  the 
liquor.  He  inspired  Newman  with  something  of 
the  kindness  our  hero  used  to  feel  in  his  earlier 
years  for  those  of  his  companions  who  could  per- 
form strange  and  clever  tricks  —  make  their  joint;; 
crack  in  queer  places  or  whistle  at  the  back  of  theii 
mouths.  "My  sister  told  me,"  he  said,  "that  i  ought 
to  come  and  remove  the  impression  1  had  taken  such 
apparent  pains  to  produce  on  you;  the  impression  of 
my  labouring  under  some  temporary  disorder.  Did 
it  strike  you  that  what  1  said  did  n't  make  a  sense  ?" 

"Well,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  any  one  like 
you  in  real  life/'  Newman  returned.  "Not  in  real 
quiet  home  life." 

"Ah  then  Claire's  right."  And  Count  Valentin 
watched  his  host  for  a  moment  through  his  smoke- 
wreaths.  "  And  yet  even  if  it  is  the  case  1  think  we 
had  better  let  it  stand.  1  had  no  idea  of  putting  you 
oft"  by  any  violence  of  any  kind;  1  wanted  on  the 
contrary  to  produce  a  favourable  impression.  Since 
I  did  nevertheless  make  a  fool  of  myself  1  was  per- 
haps luckily  inspired,  for  1  must  n't  seem  to  set  up 
a  claim  for  consistency  which,  in  the  sequel  of  our 
acquaintance,  1  may  by  no  means  justify.  Set  me 
down  as  a  shocking  trifler  with  intervals  of  high 
lucidity  and  even  of  extraordinary  energy." 

"Oh,  1  guess  you  know  what  you're  about," 
said  Newman. 

"When  I'm  sane  I'm  very  sane;  that  I  admit," 
his  guest  returned.  "  But  1  did  n't  come  here  to  talk 
about  myself.  I  should  like  to  ask  you  a  few  ques- 
tions. You  allow  me?" 

130 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Well,  give  me  a  specimen." 

**You  live  here  all  alone?" 

"Absolutely.    With  whom  should  I  live?" 

"For  the  moment,"  smiled  M.  de  Bellegarde,  "I'm 
asking  questions,  not  answering  them.  You've  come 
over  to  Paris  for  your  pleasure?" 

Newman  had  a  pause.  "Every  one  asks  me  that!" 
he  said  with  his  almost  pathetic  plainness.  "It 
sounds  quite  foolish  —  as  if  I  were  to  get  my  pleas- 
ure somehow  under  a  writ  of  extradition." 

"But  at  any  rate  you've  a  reason  for  being 
here." 

"Oh,  call  it  for  my  pleasure!"  said  Newman. 
"Though  it  represents  me  as  trying  to  reclaim  a  hope- 
less absentee  it  describes  well  enough  the  logic  of  my 
conduct." 

"And  you're  enjoying  what  you  find  ?" 

"Well,  I'm  keeping  my  head." 

Count  Valentin  puffed  his  cigar  again  in  silence. 
"For  myself,"  he  resumed  at  last,  "I'm  entirely  at 
your  service.  Anything  I  can  do  for  you  will  make 
me  very  happy.  Call  on  me  at  your  convenience.  Is 
there  any  one  you  wish  to  know  —  anything  you 
wish  to  see  ?  It 's  a  pity  you  should  n't  fully  avail 
yourself  of  Paris." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  avail  myself,"  said  Newman 
serenely.  "I'm  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  Honestly  speaking,"  his  visitor  went  on,  "  there 's 
something  absurd  to  me  in  hearing  myself  make 
you  these  offers.  They  represent  a  great  deal  of 
good-will,  but  they  represent  little  else.  You're 
a  successful  man,  and  I  am  a  rate  —  by  which  we 


THE  AMERICAN 

mean  a  dead  failure  —  and  it's  a  turning  of  the 
tables  to  talk  as  if  1  could  lend  you  a  hand." 

"How  does  it  come  that  you  have  n't  succeeded  ?" 
Newman  ingenuously  asked. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  a  failure  to  wring  your  heart," 
the  young  man  returned.  "I've  not  fallen  from  a 
height,  and  rny  fiasco  has  made  no  noise  and  luckily 
no  scandal.  But  you  stand  up,  so  very  straight,  for 
tccomplished  facts.  You've  made  a  fortune,  you've 
raised  an  edifice,  you're  a  financial,  practical  power, 
you  can  travel  about  the  world  till  you've  found  a 
soft  spot  and  lie  down  on  it  with  the  consciousness 
of  having  earned  your  rest.  And  all  —  so  fabulously! 
—  in  the  flower  of  your  magnificent  manhood.  Is 
not  that  true  ?  Well,  imagine  the  exact  reverse  of 
all  that  and  you  have  votre  serviteur.  I  've  done 
nothing,  and  there  's  not  a  poor  pitiful  thing  for  me 
to  do." 

"Why  what's  the  matter  with  all  the  things  ?" 

"It  would  take  me  time  to  say.  Some  day  I'll  tell 
you.  Meanwhile  I  'm  right,  eh  ?  You  're  a  horrid 
success?  You've  made  more  money  than  was  ever 
made  before  by  one  so  young  and  so  candid?  It's 
none  of  my  business,  but  in  short  you're  beastly 
rich?" 

"That's  another  thing  it  sounds  foolish  to  say," 
said  Newman.  "  Do  you  think  that 's  all  I  am  ? " 

"No,  I  think  you're  original  —  that's  why  I'm 
here.  We're  very  different,  you  and  I,  as  products, 
I'm  sure;  I  don't  believe  there's  a  subject  on  which 
we  judge  or  feel  alike.  But  I  rather  guess  we 
shall  get  on,  for  there  's  such  a  thing,  you  know. 

13* 


THE  AMERICAN 

as  being  —  like  fish  and  fowl  —  too  different  to 
quarrel." 

"Oh,  I  never  quarrel,"  said  Newman  rather 
shortly. 

"You  mean  you  just  shoot?  Well,  I  notify  you 
that  till  I'm  shot,"  his  visitor  declared,  "I  shall  have 
had  a  greater  sense  of  safety  with  you  than  I  have 
perhaps  ever  known  in  any  relation  of  life.  And  as 
a  sense  of  danger  is  clearly  a  thing  impossible  to  you, 
we  shall  therefore  be  all  right." 

With  the  preamble  embodied  in  these  remarks 
he  paid  our  hero  a  long  visit;  as  the  two  men  sat  with 
their  heels  on  Newman's  glowing  hearth  they  heard 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning  strike  larger  from 
a  far-off  belfry.  Valentin  de  Bellegarde  was  by  his 
own  confession  at  all  times  a  great  chatterer,  and  on 
this  occasion  the  habit  of  promptness  of  word  and 
tone  was  on  him  almost  as  a  fever.  It  was  a  tradition 
of  his  race  that  people  of  its  blood  always  conferred 
a  favour  by  their  attentions,  and,  as  his  real  con- 
fidence was  as  rare  as  his  general  surface  was  bright, 
he  had  a  double  reason  for  never  fearing  his  friend- 
ship could  be  importunate.  Late  blossom  though 
he  might  be,  moreover,  of  an  ancient  stem,  tradi- 
tion (since  1  have  used  the  word)  had  in  his  nature 
neither  visible  guards  nor  alarms,  but  was  as  muffled 
in  sociability  and  urbanity  as  an  old  dowager  in  her 
laces  and  strings  of  pearls.  Valentin  was  by  the 
measure  of  the  society  about  him  a  gentilhomme 
of  purest  strain,  and  his  rule  of  life,  so  far  as  it  was 
definite,  had  been  to  keep  up  the  character.  This, 
it  seemed  to  him,  might  agreeably  engage  a  young 

133 


THE  AMERICAN 

man  of  ordinary  good  parts.  But  he  attained  his 
best  values  by  instinct  rather  than  by  theory,  and 
the  amiability  of  his  character  was  so  great  that 
certain  of  the  aristocratic  virtues  lost,  at  his  touch, 
their  rigour  without  losing,  as  it  were,  their  temper. 
In  his  younger  years  he  had  been  suspected  of  low 
tastes,  and  his  mother  had  greatly  feared  from  him 
some  such  slip  in  the  common  mire  as  might  be- 
spatter the  family  shield.  He  had  been  treated 
therefore  to  more  than  his  share  of  schooling  and 
drilling,  but  his  instructors  had  not  succeeded  in 
mounting  him  upon  stilts.  They  had  never  troubled 
his  deepest  depths  of  serenity,  and  he  had  remained 
somehow  as  fortunate  as  he  was  rash.  He  had  long 
been  tied  with  so  short  a  rope,  however,  that  he  had 
now  a  mortal  grudge  against  family  discipline.  He 
had  been  known  to  say  within  the  limits  bf  the  fam- 
ily that,  featherhead  though  he  might  be,  the  honour 
of  the  name  was  safer  in  his  hands  than  in  those  of 
some  of  its  other  members,  and  that  if  a  day  ever 
came  to  try  it  they  would  see.  He  had  missed  no 
secret  for  making  high  spirits  consort  with  good 
manners,  and  he  seemed  to  Newman,  as  afterwards 
young  members  of  the  Latin  races  often  seemed  to 
him,  now  almost  infantile  and  now  appallingly  ma- 
ture. In  America,  Newman  reflected,  "  growing  "  men 
had  old  heads  and  young  hearts,  or  at  least  young 
morals ;  here  they  had  young  heads  and  very  aged 
hearts,  morals  the  most  grizzled  and  wrinkled. 

"What  I  envy  you  is  your  liberty,"  Count  Valentin 
found  occasion  to  observe ;  "your  wide  range,  your 
freedom  to  come  and  go,  your  not  having  a  lot  of 


THE  AMERICAN 

people,  who  take  themselves  all  too  seriously,  ex- 
pecting something  of  you.  I  live/'  he  added  with 
a  sigh,  "beneath  the  eyes  of  my  admirable  mother/' 

"Is  n't  it  then  your  own  fault  ?  What's  to  hinder 
your  ranging?"  Newman  asked. 

"There's  a  delightful  simplicity  in  that  question. 
Everything  in  life  is  to  hinder  it.  To  begin  with  I 
have  n't  a  penny." 

"Well,  1  had  n't  a  penny  when  1  began  to  range." 

"Ah,  but  your  poverty  was  your  capital!  Being 
of  your  race  and  stamp,  it  was  impossible  you  should 
remain  what  you  were  born,  and  being  born  poor 
—  do  I  understand  it  ?  —  it  was  therefore  inevitable 
you  should  become  as  different  from  that  as  possible. 
You  were  in  a  position  that  makes  one's  mouth  water; 
you  looked  round  you  and  saw  a  world  full  of  things 
you  had  only  to  step  up  to  and  take  hold  of.  When 
I  was  twenty  1  looked  round  me  and  saw  a  world 
with  everything  ticketed  *  Don't  touch,'  and  the 
deuce  of  it  was  that  the  ticket  seemed  meant  only 
for  me.  1  could  n't  go  into  business,  I  could  n't 
make  money,  because  I  was  a  Bellegarde.  I  could  n't 
go  into  politics  because  1  was  a  Bellegarde  —  the 
Bellegardes  don't  recognise  the  Bonapartes.  I 
could  n't  go  into  literature  because  I  was  a  dunce. 
I  could  n't  marry  a  rich  girl  because  no  Bellegarde 
had  for  ages  married  a  rotunere  and  it  was  n't  urgent 
I  should  deviate.  We  shall  have  to  face  it,  how- 
ever—  you'll  see.  Marriageable  heiresses,  de  notre 
lord,  are  not  to  be  had  for  nothing;  it  must  be  name 
for  name  and  fortune  for  fortune.  The  only  thing 
I  could  do  was  to  go  and  fight  for  the  Pope.  That 

-135 


THE  AMERICAN 

I  did,  punctiliously,  and  received  an  apostolic  flesn- 
wound  at  Castelfidardo.  It  did  neither  the  Holy 
Father  nor  me  any  good  that  I  could  make  out, 
Rome  was  doubtless  a  very  amusing  place  in  the 
days  of  Heliogabalus,  but  it  has  sadly  fallen  off  since. 
I  was  immured  for  three  years,  like  some  of  the 
choicest  scoundrels  in  history,  in  the  castle  of  Saint 
Angelo,  and  then  I  came  back  to  secular  life." 

Newman  followed  very  much  as  he  had  followed 
ciceroni  through  museums.  "So  you've  no  active 
interest  ?  —  you  do  absolutely  nothing  ? " 

"As  hard  as  ever  I  can.  Pm  supposed  to  amuse 
myself  and  to  pass  my  time,  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
I've  had  some  good  moments.  They  come  some- 
how, in  spite  of  one,  and  the  thing  is  then  to  recog- 
nise them.  But  you  can't  keep  on  the  watch  for  them 
for  ever.  I'm  good  for  three  or  four  years  more 
perhaps,  but  I  foresee  that  after  that  I  shall  spring 
a  leak  and  begin  to  sink.  I  shan't  float  any  more, 
I  shall  go  straight  to  the  bottom.  Then,  at  the  bot- 
tom, what  shall  I  do  ?  1  think  I  shall  turn  monk. 
Seriously,  I  think  I  shall  tie  a  rope  round  my  waist 
and  go  into  a  monastery.  It  was  an  old  custom  and 
she  old  customs  were  very  good.  People  understood 
life  quite  as  well  as  we  do.  They  kept  the  pot  boiling 
till  it  cracked,  and  then  put  it  on  the  shelf  altogether." 

"  Do  you  attend  church  regularly  ? "  asked  New- 
man in  a  tone  which  gave  the  enquiry  a  quaint  effect. 

His  friend  evidently  appreciated  this  element,  yet 
looked  at  him  with  due  decorum.  *'  I  'm  a  very  good 
Catholic.  I  cherish  the  Faith.  I  adore  the  blessed 
Virgin.  I  fear  the  Father  of  Lies." 

136 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Well  then,"  said  Newman,  "you're  very  well 
fixed.  You've  got  pleasure  in  the  present  and  para- 
dise in  the  future:  what  do  you  complain  of?" 

44  It 's  a  part  of  one's  pleasure  to  complain.  There  's 
something  in  your  own  situation  that  rubs  me  up. 
You're  the  first  man  about  whom  I've  ever  found 
myself  saying  *Oh,  if  I  were  he — !'  It's  singular, 
r>ut  so  it  is.  I  've  known  many  men  who,  besides  any 
factitious  advantages  that  I  may  possess,  had  money 
and  brains  into  the  bargain,  yet  they've  never  dis- 
turbed my  inward  peace.  You've  got  something  it 
worries  me  to  have  missed.  It's  not  money,  it's  not 
even  brains  —  though  evidently  yours  have  been 
excellent  for  your  purpose.  It 's  not  your  superfluous 
stature,  though  I  should  have  rather  liked  to  be  a 
couple  of  inches  taller.  It's  a  sort  of  air  you  have 
of  being  imperturbably,  being  irremoveably  and 
indestructibly  (that's  the  thing!)  at  home  in  the 
world.  When  I  was  a  boy  my  father  assured  me 
it  was  by  just  such  an  air  that  people  recognised  a 
Bellegarde.  He  called  my  attention  to  it.  He  did  n'l 
advise  me  to  cultivate  it;  he  said  that  as  we  grew 
up  it  always  came  of  itself.  I  supposed  it  had  come 
to  me  because  1  think  I've  always  had  the  feeling 
it  represents.  My  place  in  life  had  been  made  for 
me  and  it  seemed  easy  to  occupy.  But  you  who,  as 
I  understand  it,  have  made  your  own  place,  you  who, 
as  you  told  us  the  other  day,  have  made  and  solrf 
articles  of  vulgar  household  use  —  you  strike  me, 
in  a  fashion  of  your  own,  as  a  man  who  stands  about 
at  his  ease  and  looks  straight  over  ever  so  many  high 
walls.  I  seem  to  see  you  move  everywhere  like  a  big 

•  137 


THE  AMERICAN 

stockholder  on  his  favourite  railroad.  You  make  me 
feel  awfully  my  want  of  shares.  And  yet  the  world 
used  to  be  supposed  to  be  ours.  What  is  it  1  miss  ?" 

"It's  the  proud  consciousness  of  honest  toil,  of 
having  produced  something  yourself  that  somebody 
has  been  willing  to  pay  you  for  —  since  that 's  the 
definite  measure.  Since  you  speak  of  my  wash-tubs 
—  which  were  lovely  —  is  n't  it  just  they  and  their 
loveliness  that  make  up  my  good  conscience  ? " 

"Oh  no;  I've  seen  men  who  had  gone  beyond 
wash-tubs,  who  had  made  mountains  of  soap  — 
strong-smelling  yellow  soap,  in  great  bars;  and 
they've  left  me  perfectly  cold." 

"Then  it's  just  the  regular  treat  of  being  an 
American  citizen/'  said  Newman.  "That  sets  a  man 
right  up." 

"Possibly,"  his  guest  returned;  "but  I'm  forced 
to  say  I  've  seen  a  great  many  American  citizens  who 
did  n't  seem  at  all  set  up  or  in  the  least  like  large 
stockholders.  I  never  envied  them.  1  rather  think 
the  thing's  some  diabolical  secret  of  your  own." 

"Oh  come,"  Newman  laughed,  "you'll  persuade 
me  against  my  humility  " 

"No,  I  shall  persuade  you  of  nothing.  You've 
nothing  to  do  with  humility  any  more  than  with 
swagger:  that's  just  the  essence  of  your  confounded 
coolness.  People  swagger  only  when  they've  some- 
thing to  lose,  and  show  their  delicacy  only  when 
they  've  something  to  gain." 

**I  don't  know  what  I  may  have  to  lose,"  said 
Newman,  "but  I  can  quite  see  a  situation  in  which 
I  should  have  something  to  gain." 


THE  AMERICAN 

His  visitor  looked  at  him  hard.    **  A  situation  • —  ?" 

Newman  hesitated.  "  Well,  1  '11  tell  you  more  about 
it  when  I  know  you  better." 

44 Ah,  you'll  soon  know  me  by  heart!"  the  young 
man  sighed  as  he  departed. 

During  the  next  three  weeks  they  met  again  several 
times  arid,  without  formally  swearing  an  eternal 
friendship,  fell,  for  their  course  of  life,  instinctively 
into  step  together.  Valentin  de  Bellegarde  was  to 
Newman  the  typical,  ideal  Frenchman,  the  French- 
man of  tradition  and  romance,  so  far  as  our  hero  was 
acquainted  with  these  mystic  fields.  Gallant,  ex- 
pansive, amusing,  more  pleased  himself  with  the 
effect  he  produced  than  those  (even  when  they  were 
quite  duly  pleased)  for  whom  he  produced  it;  a 
master  of  all  the  distinctively  social  virtues  and  a 
votary  of  all  the  agreeable  sensations;  a  devotee  of 
something  mysterious  and  sacred  to  which  he  occa- 
sionally alluded  in  terms  more  ecstatic  even  than 
those  in  which  he  spoke  of  the  last  pretty  woman, 
and  which  was  simply  the  beautiful  though  some- 
what superannuated  image  of  personal  Honour; 
he  was  irresistibly  entertaining  and  enlivening,  and 
he  formed  a  character  to  which  Newman  was  as 
capable  of  doing  justice  when  he  had  once  been 
placed  in  contact  with  it  as  he  was  unlikely,  in  musing 
upon  the  possible  combinations  of  the  human  mix- 
ture, mentally  to  have  foreshadowed  it.  No  two 
parties  to  an  alliance  could  have  come  to  it  from  a 
wider  separation,  but  it  was  what  each  brought  out 
of  the  queer  dim  distance  that  formed  the  odd  attrac- 
tion for  the  other. 


THE  AMERICAN 

Valentin  lived  in  the  basement  of  an  old  house  in 
the  Rue  d'Anjou  Saint  Honore,  and  his  small  apart* 
ments  lay  between  the  court  of  the  house  and  a  gar- 
den of  equal  antiquity,  which  spread  itself  behind 
—  one  of  those  large,  sunless,  humid  gardens  into 
which  you  look  unexpectingly  in  Paris  from  back 
windows,  wondering  how  among  the  grudging  habita- 
tions they  find  their  space.  When  Newman  presently 
called  on  him  it  was  to  hint  that  such  quarters 
were,  though  in  a  different  way,  at  least  as  funny 
as  his  own.  Their  oddities  had  another  sense  than 
those  of  our  hero's  gilded  saloons  on  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann:  the  place  was  low,  dusky,  contracted, 
and  was  crowded  with  curious  bric-a-brac.  Their  pro- 
prietor, penniless  patrician  though  he  might  be,  was 
an  insatiable  collector,  and  his  walls  were  covered 
with  rusty  arms  and  ancient  panels  and  platters,  his 
doorways  draped  in  faded  tapestries,  his  floors  muffled 
in  the  skins  of  beasts.  Here  and  there  was  one  of 
those  uncomfortable  tributes  to  elegance  in  which  the 
French  upholsterer's  an  is  prolific;  a  curtained  recess 
with  a  sheet  of  looking-glass  as  dark  as  a  haunted 
pool;  a  divan  on  which,  for  its  festoons  and  furbe- 
lows, you  could  no  more  sit  down  than  on  a  dow- 
ager's lap;  a  fireplace  draped,  flounced,  frilled,  by 
the  same  analogy,  to  the  complete  exclusion  of  fire. 
The  young  man's  possessions  were  in  picturesque 
disorder,  and  his  apartment  pervaded  by  the  odour 
of  cigars,  mingled,  for  inhalation,  with  other  dim 
ghosts  of  past  presences.  Newman  thought  it,  as 
a  home,  damp,  gloomy  and  perverse,  and  was  pua> 
xled  by  the  romantic  incoherence  of  the  furniture. 

140 


THE  AMERICAN 

The  charming  Count,  like  most  of  his  country- 
men, hid  none  of  his  lights  under  a  bushel  and  made 
little  of  a  secret  of  the  more  interesting  passages  of 
his  personal  history.  He  had  inevitably  a  vast  deal 
to  say  about  women,  and  could  frequently  indulge 
in  sentimental  and  ironical  apostrophes  to  these 
authors  of  his  joys  and  woes.  "Oh,  the  women,  the 
women,  and  the  things  they've  made  me  do!"  he 
would  exclaim  with  a  wealth  of  reference.  "  C 'est 
egal^  of  all  the  follies  and  stupidities  I  've  committed 
for  them  there  is  n't  one  I  would  have  missed!"  On 
this  subject  Newman  maintained  an  habitual  re- 
serve; to  make  it  shine  in  the  direct  light  of  one's 
own  experience  had  always  seemed  to  him  a  pro- 
ceeding vaguely  analogous  to  the  cooing  of  pigeons 
and  the  chattering  of  monkeys,  and  even  inconsistent 
with  a  fully-developed  human  character.  But  his 
friend's  confidences  greatly  amused  and  rarely  dis- 
pleased him,  for  the  garden  of  the  young  man's  past 
appeared  to  have  begun  from  the  earliest  moment  to 
bloom  with  rare  flowers,  amid  which  memory  was 
as  easy  as  a  summer  breeze.  "I  really  think,"  he 
once  said,  "that  I'm  not  more  depraved  than  most 
of  my  contemporaries.  They  're  joliment  depraved, 
my  contemporaries!"  He  threw  off  wonderfully 
pretty  things  about  his  female  friends  and,  numerous 
and  various  as  they  had  been,  declared  that  his  curt 
osity  had  survived  the  ordeal.  "  But  you  *re  not  to 
take  that  as  advice,"  he  added,  "for  as  an  authority 
I  must  be  misleading.  I  'm  prejudiced  in  their  favour; 
I'm  a  sentimental  —  in  other  words  a  donkey." 
Newman  listened  with  an  uncommitted  smile  and 

.141 


THE  AMERICAN 

was  glad,  for  his  own  sake,  that  he  had  line  feelings; 
but  he  mentally  repudiated  the  idea  of  a  Frenchman's 
having  discovered  any  merit  in  the  amiable  sex  he 
himself  did  n't  suspect.  Count  Valentin,  however, 
was  not  merely  anecdotic  and  indiscreet;  he  wel- 
comed every  light  on  our  hero's  own  life,  and  so  far 
as  his  revelations  might  startle  and  waylay  Newman 
could  cap  them  as  from  the  long  habit  of  capping. 
He  narrated  his  career,  in  fact,  from  the  beginning, 
through  all  its  variations,  and  whenever  his  com- 
panion's credulity  or  his  "standards"  appeared  to 
protest  it  amused  him  to  heighten  the  colour  of  the 
episode.  He  had  sat  with  Western  humourists  in 
circles  round  cast-iron  stoves  and  seen  "tall"  stories 
grow  taller  without  toppling  over,  and  his  imagina- 
tion had  learnt  the  trick  of  building  straight  and 
high.  The  Count's  regular  attitude  became  at  last 
that  of  lively  self-defence;  to  mark  the  difference 
of  his  type  from  that  of  the  occasionally  witless  he 
cultivated  the  wit  of  never  being  caught  swallowing. 
The  result  of  this  was  that  Newman  found  it  impos- 
sible to  convince  him  of  certain  time-honoured  ver- 
ities. 

"But  the  details  don't  matter,"  Valentin  said, 
"since  you've  evidently  had  some  such  surprising 
adventures.  You've  seen  some  strange  sides  of  life, 
you  've  revolved  to  and  fro  over  a  continent  as  1  walk 
up  and  down  the  Boulevard.  You're  a  man  of  the 
world  to  a  livelier  tune  than  ours.  You've  spent 
some  awful,  some  deadly  days,  and  you  've  done 
some  extremely  disagreeable  things:  you've  shov- 
elled sand,  as  a  boy,  for  supper,  and  you  've  eaten 

142 


THE  AMERICAN 

boiled  cat  in  a  gold-digger's  camp.  You  've  stood 
casting  up  figures  for  ten  hours  at  a  time  and  you've 
sat  through  Methodist  sermons  for  the  sake  of  look- 
ing at  a  pretty  girl  in  another  pew.  It  can't  all  have 
been  very  folichon.  But  at  any  rate  you've  done 
something  and  you  arc  something;  you've  used  your 
faculties  and  you've  developed  your  character. 
You've  not  akruti  yourself  with  debauchery,  and 
you've  not  mortgaged  your  fortune  to  social  con- 
veniencies.  You  take  things  as  it  suits  you,  and  you  've 
fewer  prejudices  even  than  I,  who  pretend  to  have 
none,  but  who  in  reality  have  three  or  four  that  stand 
in  my  way.  Happy  man,  you  're  strong  and  you  're 
free — nothing  stands  in  yours.  But  what  the 
deuce,"  he  wound  up,  **  do  you  propose  to  do  with 
such  advantages  ?  Really  to  use  them  you  need  a 
better  world  than  this.  There's  nothing  worth  your 
while  here." 

"Oh,  I  guess  there's  something,"  Newman   said. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Well,"  he  sighed,  "I'll  tell  you  some  other 
time!" 

In  this  way  he  delayed  from  day  to  day  broaching 
a  subject  he  had  greatly  at  heart.  Meanwhile,  how- 
ever, he  was  growing  practically  familiar  with  it; 
in  other  words  he  had  called  again,  three  times,  on 
Madame  de  Cintre.  On  but  two  of  these  occasions 
had  he  found  her  at  home  and  on  each  of  them  she 
had  other  visitors.  Her  visitors  were  numerous  and, 
to  our  hero's  sense,  vociferous,  and  they  exacted  much 
of  their  hostess's  attention.  She  found  time  none  the 
less  to  bestow  a  little  of  it  on  the  stranger,  a  quantity 

H3 


THE  AMERICAN 

represented  in  an  occasional  vague  smile  —  the  very 
vagueness  of  which  pleased  him  by  allowing  him  to 
fill  it  out  mentally,  both  at  the  time  and  afterwards, 
with  such  meanings  as  most  fitted.  He  sat  by  without 
speaking,  looking  at  the  entrances  and  exits,  the 
greetings  and  chatterings,  of  Madame  de  Cintre's 
guests.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  at  the  play  and  as  if  his 
own  speaking  would  be  an  interruption;  some- 
times he  wished  he  had  a  book  to  follow  the  dialogue; 
he  half  expected  to  see  a  woman  in  a  white  cap  and 
pink  ribbons  come  and  offer  him  one  for  two  francs. 
Some  of  the  ladies  gave  him  a  very  hard  or  a  very 
soft  stare,  as  he  chose;  others  seemed  profoundly 
unconscious  of  his  presence.  The  men  looked  only 
at  the  mistress  of  the  scene.  This  was  inevitable, 
for  whether  one  called  her  beautiful  or  not  she  en- 
tirely occupied  and  filled  one's  vision,  quite  as  an 
ample,  agreeable  sound  filled  one's  ear.  Newman 
carried  away  after  no  more  than  twenty  distinct 
words  with  her  an  impression  to  which  solemn  pro- 
mises could  not  have  given  a  higher  value.  She  was 
part  of  the  play  he  was  seeing  acted,  as  much  a  part 
of  it  as  her  companions,  but  how  she  filled  the  stage 
and  how  she  bore  watching,  not  to  say  studying  and 
throwing  bouquets  to!  Whether  she  rose  or  seated 
herself;  whether  she  went  with  her  departing  friends 
to  the  door  and  lifted  up  the  heavy  curtain  as  they 
passed  out  and  stood  an  instant  looking  after  them 
and  giving  them  the  last  nod;  or  whether  she  leaned 
back  in  her  chair  with  her  arms  crossed  and  her  eyes 
quiet,  her  face  listening  and  smiling,  she  made  this 
particular  guest  desire  to  have  her  always  before  him, 

U4 


THE  AMERICAN 

moving  through  every  social  office  open  to  the  genius 
of  woman,  or  in  other  words  through  the  whole  range 
of  exquisite  hospitality.  If  it  might  be  hospitality  to 
him  it  would  be  well;  if  it  might  be  hospitality  for 
him  it  would  be  still  better.  She  was  so  high  yet  so 
slight,  so  active  yet  so  still,  so  elegant  yet  so  simple, 
so  present  yet  so  withdrawn!  It  was  this  unknown 
quantity  that  figured  for  him  as  a  mystery;  it  was 
what  she  was  off  the  stage,  as  he  might  feel,  that 
interested  him  most  of  all.  He  could  not  have  told 
you  what  warrant  he  had  for  talking  of  mysteries; 
if  it  had  been  his  habit  to  express  himself  in  poetic 
figures  he  might  have  said  that  in  observing  her  he 
seemed  to  see  the  vague  circle  sometimes  attending 
the  partly-filled  disc  of  the  moon.  It  was  not  that 
she  was  effaced,  and  still  less  that  she  was  "shy"; 
she  was,  on  the  contrary,  as  distinct  as  the  big  figure 
on  a  banknote  and  of  as  straightforward  a  pro- 
fession. But  he  was  sure  she  had  qualities  as  yet 
unguessed  even  by  herself  and  that  it  was  kept  for 
Christopher  Newman  to  bring  out. 

He  had  abstained  for  several  reasons  from  saying 
some  of  these  things  to  her  brother.  One  reason  was 
that  before  proceeding  to  any  act  he  was  always  cir- 
cumspect, conjectural,  contemplative;  he  had  little 
eagerness,  as  became  a  man  who  felt  that  whenever 
he  really  began  to  move  he  walked  with  long  steps. 
And  then  it  just  pleased,  it  occupied  and  excited  him, 
not  to  give  his  case,  as  he  would  have  said,  prematurely 
away.  But  one  day  Valentine  —  as  Newman  con- 
venientlv  sounded  the  name  —  had  been  dining  with 
him  on  the  boulevard  and  their  sociability  was  such 

.145 


THE  AMERICAN 

that  they  had  sat  long  over  their  dinner.  Cn  rising 
from  it  the  young  man  proposed  that,  to  help  them 
through  the  rest  of  the  evening,  they  should  go  and 
see  Madame  Dandelard.  Madame  Dandelard  was 
a  little  Italian  lady  married  to  a  Frenchman  who 
had  proved  a  rake  and  a  brute  and  the  torment  of  her 
life.  Her  husband  had  spent  all  her  money  and  then, 
lacking  further  means  for  alien  joys,  had  taken,  in 
his  more  intimate  hours,  to  beating  her.  She  had 
a  blue  spot  somewhere  which  she  showed  to  several 
persons,  including  the  said  Valentine.  She  had  ob- 
tained a  legal  separation,  collected  the  scraps  of  her 
fortune,  which  were  meagre,  and  come  to  live  in 
Paris,  where  she  was  staying  at  an  hotel  garni.  She 
was  always  looking  for  an  apartment  and  visiting, 
with  a  hundred  earnest  questions  and  measurements, 
those  of  other  people.  She  was  very  pretty  and  child- 
like and  made  very  extraordinary  remarks.  Valentin 
enjoyed  her  acquaintance,  and  the  source  of  his  in- 
terest in  her  was,  according  to  his  declaration,  an 
anxious  curiosity  as  to  what  would  become  of  her. 
"She's  poor,  she's  pretty  and  she's  silly,"  he  said; 
"it  seems  to  me  she  can  go  only  one  way.  It's  a  pity, 
but  it  can't  be  helped.  I  '11  give  her  six  months. 
She  has  nothing  to  fear  from  me,  but  I  'm  watching 
the  process.  It's  merely  a  question  of  the  how  and 
the  when  and  the  where.  Yes,  I  know  what  you  're 
going  to  say;  this  horrible  Paris  hardens  one's  heart. 
But  it  quickens  one's  wits,  and  it  ends  by  teaching 
one  a  refinement  of  observation.  To  see  this  little 
woman's  little  drama  play  itself  out  is  now  for  me 
a  pleasure  of  the  mind." 

146 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  IF  she 's  going  to  throw  herself  away,"  Newman 
had  said,  "you  ought  to  stop  her." 

"  Stop  her  ?    How  stop  her  ? " 

"Talk  to  her;   give  her  some  good  advice." 

At  which  the  young  man  laughed.  "'Some'? 
How  much?  Heaven  deliver  us  both!  Imagine  the 
situation.  Try  giving  her  yourself  exactly  the  right 


amount." 


After  which  it  was  that  Newman  had  gone 
with  him  to  see  Madame  Dandelard.  When  they 
came  away  Valentin  reproached  his  companion. 
"  Where  was  your  famous  advice  ?  I  did  n't  hear 
a  word  of  it." 

"Oh,  I  give  it  up,"  Newman  simply  answered. 

"Then  you  're  as  bad  as  I!" 

"No,  because  I  don't  find  it  a  pleasure  of  the  mind 
to  watch  her  prospective  adventures.  I  don't  in  the 
least  want  to  see  her  going  down  hill.  I  had  rather 
look  the  other  way.  But  why,"  our  friend  asked  in 
a  moment, "  don't  you  get  your  sister  to  go  and  see 
her?" 

His  companion  stared.  "Go  and  see  Madame 
Dandelard —  my  sister  ? " 

"She  might  talk  to  her  to  very  good  purpose." 

Valentin  shook  his  head  with  sudden  gravity. 
"  My  sister  does  n't  have  relations  with  that  sort  of 
person.  Madame  Dandelard  's  nothing  at  all;  they'd 


never  meet." 


"I  should  think,"  Newman  returned,  "that  Ma- 
dame de  Cintre  might  see  whom  she  pleased."  And 
he  privately  resolved  that,  after  he  should  know  her 
a  little  better,  he  would  ask  her  to  go  and  pick  up, 


THE  AMERICAN 

for  such  "pressing"  as  might  be  possible,  the  little 
spotted  blown  leaf  in  the  dusty  Parisian  alley.  When 
they  had  dined,  at  all  events,  on  the  occasion  I  have 
mentioned,  he  demurred  to  the  latter's  proposal  that 
they  should  go  again  and  "draw"  the  lady  on  the 
subject  of  her  bruises.  "I've  something  better  in 
mind;  come  home  with  me  and  finish  the  evening 
before  my  fire." 

Valentin  always  rose  to  any  implied  appeal  to  his 
expository  gift,  and  before  long  the  two  men  sat 
watching  the  blaze  play  over  the  pomp  of  Newman's 
high  saloon. 


VIII 

here  — I  want  to  know  about  your  sister," 
the  elder  abruptly  began. 

His  visitor  arched  fine  eyebrows.  "Now  that  I 
think  of  it  you  Ve  never  yet  made  her  the  subject  of 
a  question." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  know  why." 

"If  it's  because  you  don't  trust  me,  you're  very 
right,"  said  Valentin.  "I  can't  talk  of  her  rationally. 
I  admire  her  too  much." 

"Talk  of  her  as  you  can,"  Newman  returned, 
"  and  if  I  don't  like  it  I  '11  stop  you." 

"Well  we're  very  good  friends;  such  a  brother 
and  sister  as  have  n't  been  known  since  Orestes  and 
Electra.  You've  seen  her  enough  to  have  taken  her 
in:  tall,  slim,  imposing,  gentle,  half  a  grande  dame 
and  half  an  angel;  a  mixture  of  'type'  and  sim- 
plicity, of  the  eagle  and  the  dove.  She  looks  like 
a  statue  that  has  failed  as  cold  stone,  resigned  itself 
to  its  defects  and  come  to  life  as  flesh  and  blood,  to 
wear  white  capes  and  long  soft  trains.  All  I  can  say 
is  that  she  really  possesses  every  merit  that  the  face 
she  has,  the  eyes  she  has,  the  smile  she  has,  the 
tone  of  voice  she  has,  the  whole  way  she  has,  lead 
you  to  expect;  and  is  n't  it  saying  quite  enough  ?  As 
a  general  thing  when  a  woman  seems  from  the  first 
as  right  as  that,  she's  altogether  wrong  —  you've 
only  to  look  out.  But  in  proportion  as  you  take 

149 


THE  AMERICAN 

Claire  for  right  you  may  fold  your  arms  and  let 
yourself  float  with  the  current;  you're  safe.  You'll 
only  never  imagine  a  person  so  true  and  so  straight. 
She's  so  honest  and  so  gentille.  I've  never  seen  a 
woman  half  so  charming.  She  has  every  blessed 
thing  a  man  wants  and  more;  that's  all  I  can  say 
p-bout  her.  There!"  Valentin  concluded:  "I  told  you 
how  much  I  should  bore  you." 

Newman  uttered  no  assurance  that  he  was  not 
bored;  he  only  said  after  a  little:  "She's  remark- 
ably good,  eh  ? " 

"She'd  have  invented  goodness  if  it  did  n't  exist.1' 

" It  seems  to  me,"  Newman  remarked,  "that  you  'd 
have  invented  her — !  But  it's  all  right,"  he  added 
—  "I'd  have  invented  you!  Is  she  clever?"  he  then 
asked. 

"Try  her  with  something  you  think  so  yourself. 
Then  you'll  see." 

"Oh,  how  can  I  try  her?"  sighed  Newman  with 
a  lapse.  But  he  picked  himself  up.  "Is  she  fond  of 
admiration  ?" 

"Pardieu!"  cried  Valentin.  "She'd  be  no  sister 
of  mine  if  she  were  n't.  What  woman 's  not  ? " 

"Well,  when  they're  too  fond  of  it,"  Newman 
heard  himself  hypocritically  temporise,  "they  com- 
mit all  kinds  of  follies  to  get  it." 

"I  did  n't  say  she  was  'too'  fond!"  Valentin  ex- 
claimed. "Heaven  forbid  I  should  say  anything  so 
idiotic.  She 's  not  too  anything.  If  I  were  to  say  she 's 
ugly  I  should  n't  mean  she's  <too'  ugly.  She's  fond 
of  pleasing,  and  if  you  're  pleased  she  leaves  it  so.  If 
you're  not  pleased  she  lets  it  pass,  and  thinks  the 

150 


THE  AMERICAN 

worse  neither  of  you  nor  of  herself.  I  imagine,  though, 
she  hopes  the  saints  in  heaven  are,  for  I  'm  sure 
she 's  incapable  of  trying  to  please  by  any  means  of 
which  they  'd  disapprove." 

"Is  she  happy  then  ?"  Newman  presently  pursued. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!    That 's  much  to  ask." 

"Do  you  mean  for  me  —  ?  " 

"I  mean  for  her.  What  should  she  be  happy 
about  ? " 

Newman  wondered.    "Then  she  has  troubles  ?" 

"My  dear  man,  she  has  what  we  all  have. —  even 
you,  strange  to  say.  She  has  a  history." 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  hear,"  said  Newman. 

Valentin  hesitated  —  an  embarrassment  rare  with 
him.  "Then  we  shall  have  to  appoint  a  special 
seance,  with  music  or  refreshments  or  a  turn  outside 
between  the  acts.  Suffice  it  for  the  present  that  my 
sister's  situation  has  been  far  from  folichonne.  She 
made,  at  eighteen,  a  marriage  that  was  expected  to  be 
brilliant,  but  that,  like  a  lamp  that  goes  out,  turned  all 
to  smoke  and  bad  smell.  M.  de  Cintre  was  fifty-five 
years  old  and  pas  du  tout  aimable.  He  lived,  how- 
ever, but  three  or  four  years,  and  after  his  death 
his  family  pounced  upon  his  money,  brought  a  law- 
suit against  his  widow,  pushed  things  very  hard. 
Their  case  was  good,  for  M.  de  Cintre,  who  had  been 
trustee  for  some  of  his  relatives,  appeared  to  have 
been  guilty  of  some  very  irregular  practices.  In  the 
course  of  the  suit  some  revelations  were  made  as  to 
his  private  history  which  my  sister  found  so  little  to 
her  taste  that  she  ceased  to  defend  herself  and  washed 
her  hands  of  all  her  interests.  This  required  some 

151 


THE  AMERICAN 

strength  of  conviction,  for  she  was  between  two  fires, 
her  husband's  family  opposing  her  and  her  own 
family  denouncing.  My  mother  and  my  brother 
wished  her  to  cleave  to  what  they  regarded  as  her 
rights.  But  she  resisted  firmly  and  at  last  bought 
her  freedom  —  obtained  my  mother's  assent  to  her 
compromising  the  suit  at  the  price  of  a  promise." 

"What  was  the  promise?" 

"To  do  anything  else  whatever,  for  the  next  ten 
years,  that  might  be  asked  of  her  —  anything,  that 
is,  but  rnarry." 

"She  had  disliked  her  husband  very  much  ?" 

"No  one  knows  how  much!" 

"The  marriage  had  been  made  in  your  vicious 
French  way,"  Newman  continued  —  "by  the  two 
families  and  without  her  having  a  voice?" 

"  It  was  a  first  act  for  a  melodrama.  She  saw  M.  de 
Cintr£  for  the  first  time  a  month  before  the  wedding, 
after  everything,  to  the  minutest  detail,  had  been 
arranged.  She  turned  white  when  she  looked  at  him 
and  white  she  remained  —  I  shall  never  forget  her 
face  —  till  her  wedding-day.  The  evening  before  the 
ceremony  her  nerves  completely  gave  way  and  she 
spent  the  whole  night  in  sobs.  My  mother  sat  holding 
her  two  hands  and  my  brother  walked  up  and  down 
the  room.  I  declared  it  was  revolting  and  told  my 
sister  publicly  that  if  she  would  really  hold  out  I 
would  stand  by  her  against  all  comers.  I  was  sent 
about  my  business  and  she  became  Comtesse  de 
Cintre." 

"Your  brother,"  said  Newman  reflectively,  "must 
be  a  very  nice  young  man." 

10 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  He 's  very  nice,  though  he 's  not  very  young.  He  's 
now  upwards  of  fifty;  fifteen  years  my  senior.  He  has 
been  a  father  to  my  sister  and  me.  He's  a  type  apart; 
he  has  the  best  manners  in  France.  He's  extremely 
clever;  indeed  he's  full  of  accomplishment.  He's 
writing  a  history  of  The  Unmarried  Princesses  of 
the  Maison  de  France."  This  was  said  by  Valentin 
with  extreme  gravity,  in  a  tone  that  betokened  no 
mental  reservation  —  or  that  at  least  almost  be- 
tokened none. 

Our  friend  perhaps  discovered  there  what  little 
there  was,  for  he  presently  said:  "You  could  struggle 
along  without  your  brother." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon "  —  the  young  man  still  as 
gravely  protested.  "A  house  like  ours  is  inevitably 


yy 

one. 


"Then  you  want  some  one  to  come  right  in  and 
break  it  up." 

"Hem?"  said  Valentin. 

On  which  Newman,  after  an  instant,  put  the 
matter  another  way.  "Well,  I'm  glad  I'm  free  not 
to  like  him!" 

"Wait  till  you  know  him!"  Valentin  returned  — 
and  this  time  he  smiled. 

"Is  your  mother  also  then  a  type  apart?"  his 
friend  asked  after  a  pause. 

"  For  my  mother,"  the  young  man  said,  now  with 
intense  gravity,  "I  have  the  highest  admiration. 
She's  a  very  extraordinary  person.  You  can't  ap* 
proach  her  without  feeling  it." 

"She's  the  daughter,  I  believe,  of  an  Englisl 
nobleman?" 

'53 


THE  AMERICAN 

u  Of  Lord  Saint  Dunstans." 

"And  was  he  very  grand  ?" 

"Not  as  grand  as  we.  They  date  only  from  the 
sixteenth  century.  It  is  on  my  father's  side  that  we 
go  back  —  back,  back,  back.  The  family  antiquaries 
themselves  lose  breath.  At  last  they  stop,  panting 
and  fanning  themselves,  somewhere  in  the  ninth 
century,  under  Charlemagne.  That's  where  we 
begin." 

"  There  is  no  mistake  about  it  ? "  Newman  de- 
manded. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  not.  We've  been  mistaken  at 
least  for  several  centuries." 

"  And  you  've  always  married  into  —  what  do  you 
call  them  ?  —  *  ancient  houses '  ? " 

"As  a  rule;  though  in  so  long  a  stretch  of  time 
there  have  been  some  exceptions.  Three  or  four 
Bellegardes,  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  cen- 
turies, took  wives  out  of  the  bourgeoisie  —  accepted 
lawyers'  daughters." 

"A  lawyer's  daughter  —  that's  a  come-down?" 
Newman  went  on. 

"A  condescension.  But  one  of  us,  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  did  better:  he  married  a  beggar-maid,  like 
King  Cophetua.  That  was  really  more  convenient^ 
it  was  like  pairing  with  a  bird  or  a  monkey;  one 
did  n't  have  to  think  about  her  family  at  all.  Our 
women  have  always  done  well;  they've  never  ever* 
gone  into  the  petite  noblesse.  There  is,  I  believe,  not 
a  case  on  record  of  a  misalliance  among  ces  dames" 

Newman  turned  this  over  a  while  and  then  at 
last:  "You  offered,  the  first  time  you  came  to  see 


THE  AMERICAN 

me,  to  render  me  any  service  you  could.  I  told  you 
I  'd  sometime  mention  something  you  might  do.  Do 
you  remember  ? " 

"  Remember  ?   I  Ve  been  counting  the  hours." 

"Very  well;  here's  your  chance.  Do  what  you 
can  to  make  your  sister  think  well  of  me." 

The  young  man  had  a  strange  bright  stare.  "Why, 
I  'm  sure  she  thinks  as  well  of  you  as  possible  al  • 
ready." 

"An  opinion  founded  on  seeing  me  three  or  four 
rimes?  That's  putting  me  off  with  very  little.  I  want 
something  more.  I  Ve  been  thinking  of  it  a  good  deal 
and  at  last  I've  decided  to  tell  you.  I  should  like 
very  much  to  marry  Madame  de  Cintre." 

Valentin  had  been  looking  at  him  with  quickened 
expectancy  and  with  the  smile  with  which  he  had 
greeted  his  allusion  to  the  promised  request.  At  this 
last  announcement  he  kept  his  eyes  on  him,  but  their 
expression  went  through  two  or  three  curious  phases. 
It  felt,  apparently,  an  impulse  to  let  itself  go  further; 
but  this  it  immediately  checked.  Then  it  remained 
for  some  instants  taking  counsel  with  the  danger  of 
hilarity  —  at  the  end  of  which  it  decreed  a  retreat. 
It  slowly  effaced  itself  and  left  a  sobriety  modified 
by  the  desire  not  to  be  rude.  Extreme  surprise  had 
in  fine  come  into  M.  de  Bellegarde's  face;  but  he  had 
reflected  that  it  would  be  uncivil  to  leave  it  there. 
And  yet  what  the  deuce  was  he  to  do  with  it  ?  He  got 
up  in  his  agitation  and  stood  before  the  chimney- 
piece,  still  looking  at  his  host.  He  was  a  longer  time 
thinking  what  to  say  than  one  would  have  expected. 

"If  you  can't  render  me  the  service  I  ask,"  New- 

'55 


THE  AMERICAN 

man  pursued,  "don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me,  foi  I'll 
be  hanged  if  I  won't  get  on  without  you." 

"Let  me  hear  it  again  distinctly,  the  service  you 
ask.  It  's  very  important,  you  know,"  Valentin  went 
on.  "I'm  to  plead  your  cause  with  my  sister  be- 
cause you  want  —  you  want  to  marry  her?  That's 
it,  eh?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  plead  my  cause  exactly;  I  shall 
try  and  do  that  myself.  But  say  a  good  word  for  me 
now  and  then  —  let  her  know  at  least  what  you  take 
me  for." 

This  was,  visibly,  for  the  young  man,  a  droll 
simplification.  "  I  shall  have  first,  my  dear  fellow,  to 
know  myself!" 

But  Newman  went  on  unheeding.  "What  I  want 
chiefly,  after  all,  is  just  to  make  you  aware  of  what 
I  have  in  mind.  I  suppose  that's  what  you  all  expect, 
making  you  formally  aware,  is  n't  it  ?  I  want  always 
to  do,  over  here,  what's  customary,  what  you've 
been  used  to.  You  seem  more  lost  without  what 
you  've  been  used  to  than  we  are.  If  there 's  anything 
particular  to  be  done  let  me  know  and  I  '11  make  it 
right.  I  would  n't  for  the  world  approach  Madame 
de  Cintre  save  by  schedule.  I  'd  go  in  to  her  on  all- 
fours  if  that's  what's  required.  If  I  ought  to  speak 
to  your  mother  first  why  I  '11  speak  to  her.  If  I  ought 
to  speak  even  to  your  brother  I'll  speak  to  him. 
I'll  speak  to  any  one  you  like,  to  the  porter  in  his 
lodge  or  the  policeman  on  his  beat.  As  I  don't  know 
any  one  else  I  begin  by  speaking  to  you.  But  that,  if 
k;s  a  social  obligation,  is  a  pleasure  as  well." 

"Yes,  I  see  —  I  see,"  said  Valentin,  lightly  strok* 


THE  AMERICAN 

ing  his  chin.  "You've  a  very  right  feeling  about  it, 
but  I'm  glad  you've  begun  with  me."  He  paused, 
hesitated,  and  then  turned  away  and  walked  slowly 
the  length  of  the  room.  Newman  got  up  and  stood 
leaning  against  the  chimney  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  his  eyes  on  his  friend's  evolution.  This 
personage  came  back  and  stopped  in  front  of  him. 
"  I  give  it  up.  I  '11  not  pretend  I  'm  not  —  well,  im- 
pressed, lam  —  hugely!  Ouf!  It's  a  relief." 

"That  sort  of  news  is  always  a  surprise,"  said  New- 
man. "No  matter  what  you've  done,  people  are 
never  prepared.  But  if  you're  impressed  I  hope  at 
least  you  're  impressed  favourably." 

"Come!"  the  young  man  broke  out;  "I'm  going 
to  let  you  have  it.  I  don't  know  whether  it  lays  me 
flat  or  makes  me  soar." 

"Well,  if  it  corners  you  too  much  I'm  afraid 
you've  got  to  stay  there,  for  I  assure  you  I  mean 
myself  to  fight  out  in  the  open." 

"My  dear  man,  Samson  was  in  the  open  when  he 
pulled  down  the  temple,  but  there  was  n't  much  left 
of  any  one  else."  To  which  Valentin  added :  "  You  're 
perfectly  serious  ?" 

"Am  I  a  futile  Frenchman  that  I  should  n't  be  ?" 
Newman  asked.  "  But  why  is  it,  by  the  by  —  come 
to  talk  —  that  you  are  prostrated  ? " 

The  Count  raised  his  hand  to  the  back  of  his  head 
and  rubbed  his  hair  quickly  up  and  down,  thrust- 
ing out  the  tip  of  his  tongue  as  he  did  so.  "Well, 
for  instance  you're  not,  as  we  call  it,  if  I'm  not 
mistaken,  'born." 

"The  devil  I'm  not!"  Newman  exclaimed. 
IS7 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Oh,"  said  his  friend  a  little  more  seriously,  '  I 
did  n't  know  you  had  —  well,  your  quarterings." 

"Ah,  your  quarterings  are  your  little  local  mat- 
ter!" 

Valentin  just  hesitated.  "  But  are  n't  we  all  — 
isn't  my  admirable  sister  in  particular  —  our  little 
5ocal  matter?" 

Newman  met  his  eyes  with  a  long,  hard  look  — 
exhaling  at  last,  however,  a  sigh  as  long.  "Do  you 
mean  that  I  must  claim  a  social  standing  and  hang 
out  my  sign  ?  What  sort  of  swagger 's  that  ?  If  it 's 
a  question  of  pretensions  —  pretensions,  that  is,  to 
effectively  existing  —  let  me  make,  to  meet  you  on 
your  own  ground,  the  very  highest.  Only  it  is  n't,  it 
seems  to  me,  for  me  vulgarly  to  make  them;  it's  for 
you,  assuming  them,  to  invalidate  them.  On  you,  in 
other  words,  the  burden  of  disproof." 

Valentin's  fine  smile  suffered  a  further  strain. 
"Haven't  you  manufactured  and  placed  in  the 
market  certain  admirable  wash-tubs?" 

"With  great  temporary  success.  But  it  isn't  a 
question  of  my  achievements  —  it 's  a  question  of 
my  failures.  You  might  catch  me,"  said  our  friend, 
"on  two  or  three  of  those.  Only  then,  you  know," 
he  added,  "  I  should  have  the  right  to  ask  you  about 
yours." 

"Oh,  ours  have  partaken  of  our  general  brilliancy! 
They  have  n't  at  any  rate  prevented  the  great  thing." 

"  And  what  do  you  call  the  great  thing  ? " 

"Well,"  Valentin  smiled,  "our  being  interesting." 

Newman  considered.    "To  yourselves  ?" 

"To  the  world.    That  has  been  our  value  —  that 


THE  AMERICAN 

we've  had  the  world's  attention.  We've  been  felt 
i]o  be  worth  it." 

"Oh,"  said  Newman,  "if  it's  but  a  question  of 
what  you're  worth —  !"  He  hung  fire  an  instant, 
and  then,  "Should  you  like  to  know  what  /  am?" 
he  demanded. 

He  had  held  his  companion  by  his  pause,  and  his 
words  prolonged  a  little  the  situation.  "No,  thanks," 
Valentin  then  replied.  "It's  none  of  my  business. 
It's  enough  for  me  that  you're  worth,  delightfully, 
my  acquaintance  and  my  wonder." 

In  recognition  of  these  last  words  Newman  for  a  mo- 
ment said  nothing.  He  only  coloured  as  with  a  flush 
of  hope.  Then  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling  and 
stood  looking  at  one  of  the  rosy  cherubs  painted  on 
it.  "Of  course  I  don't  expect  to  marry  any  woman 
for  the  asking,'*  he  observed  at  last:  "I  expect  first  to 
make  myself  acceptable  to  her.  She  must  like  me 
to  begin  with.  But  what  I  feel  is  how  she  must  — 
from  the  moment  she  knows  me  as  I  want." 

"As  the  prince  of  husbands  ?" 

"  Well  yes  —  call  it  the  prince,  as  you  speak  of 
such  people." 

"I  believe,"  said  Valentin  after  a  moment,  "that 
you'd  be  as  good  a  prince  as  another." 

"I  should  be  as  good  a  husband." 

"And  that's  what  you  want  me  to  tell  my  sister  ?" 

"That's  what  I  want  you  to  tell  her." 

The  young  man  laid  his  hand  on  his  companion's 

I  arm,  looked  at  him  critically,  from  head  to  foot,  and 
then,  with  a  loud  laugh  and  shaking  the  other  hand 
in  the  air,  turned  away.  He  walked  again  the  length 

159 


THE  AMERICAN 

of  the  room  and  again  he  came  back  and  stationed 
himself  in  front  of  Newman.  "All  this  is  very  in- 
teresting and  very  curious.  In  what  I  said  just  now 
I  was  speaking  not  for  myself,  but  for  my  tradition' 
and  my  superstitions.  For  myself  really  your  idea  stir., 
me  up.  It  startled  me  at  first,  but  the  more  I  think 
of  it  the  more  I  see  in  it.  It's  no  use  attempting  to 
explain  anything;  you  would  n't,  I  think,  follow  me. 
After  all,  I  don't  see  why  you  need;  it's  no  great 
loss." 

"Oh,  if  there's  anything  more  to  explain  try  me 
with  it.  I  guess  I  've  had  to  understand  some  queerer 
things  than  any  you're  likely  to  tell." 

"No,"  said  Valentin,  "we'll  do  without  them; 
we  '11  let  them  go.  I  took  you  for  somebody  —  God 
knows  whom  or  what  —  the  first  time  I  saw  you,  and 
I  '11  abide  by  that.  It  would  be  quite  odious  for  me 
to  come  talking  to  you  as  if  I  could  patronise  you. 
I've  told  you  before  that  I  envy  you;  vous  mim- 
posez,  as  we  say  —  I  did  n't  know  you  much  till  these 
last  five  minutes.  So  we'll  let  things  go,  and  I'll 
say  nothing  to  you  that,  with  our  positions  reversed, 
you  would  n't  say  to  me." 

I  know  not  whether  in  renouncing  the  mysterious 
opportunity  to  which  he  alluded  Valentin  felt  him- 
self do  something  very  generous.  If  so  he  was  not 
rewarded;  his  generosity  was  not  appreciated.  New- 
man failed  to  recognise  any  power  to  disconcert  or 
to  wound  him,  and  he  had  now  no  sense  of  coming 
off  easily.  He  had  not  at  his  command  the  gratitude 
even  of  a  glance;  and  he  was  in  truth  occupied  with 
a  particular  fear,  which  he  presently  expressed.  "Do 

160 


THE  AMERICAN 

you  think  she  may  be  by  chance  determined  not  to 
marry  at  all  ? " 

"Oh,  I  quite  think  it  I  But  that's  not  necessarily 
too  much  against  you.  Such  a  determination  never 
yet  spoiled  a  right  opportunity." 

"  But  suppose  I  don't  seem  a  right  one.  I  'in  afraid 
it  will  be  hard,"  Newman  said  with  a  gravity  that 
appeared  to  signify  at  the  same  time  a  sort  of  lucid 
respect  for  the  fact. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  be  easy.  In  a  general  way 
I  don't  see  why  a  widow  should  ever  marry  again. 
She  has  gained  the  benefits  of  matrimony  —  freedom 
and  consideration  —  and  she  has  got  rid  of  the  draw- 
backs. Why  should  she  put  her  head  back  into  the 
noose  ?  Her  usual  motive  is  ambition  —  if  a  man  can 
offer  her  a  great  position,  make  her  a  princess  or  an 
ambassadress." 

"And  —  in  that  way  —  is  Madame  de  Cintre 
ambitious  ?" 

"Who  knows?"  her  brother  asked  with  slightly 
depressing  detachment.  "I  don't  pretend  to  say  all 
she  is  or  all  she  is  n't.  I  think  she  might  be  touched 
by  the  prospect  of  becoming  the  wife  of  a  great  man. 
But  in  a  certain  way,  I  believe,  whatever  she  does 
will  be  the  improbable.  Don't  be  too  confident,  but 
don't  absolutely  doubt.  Your  best  chance  for  success 
will  be  precisely  in  affecting  her  as  unusual,  unex- 
pected, original.  Don't  try  to  be  any  one  else;  be 
simply  yourself  as  hard  as  ever  you  can,  and  harder 
perhaps  indeed  (if  you  understand)  than  you've  ever 
been  before.  Something  or  other  can't  fail  to  come  of 
that.  I  'm  veiy  curious  to  see  what." 

161 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  curiosity," 
Newman  said  —  "if  I  may  take  it  as  your  advice 
I  'm  glad  for  your  sake  at  least  that  I  'm  likely  to  prove 
so  amusing." 

His  friend,  who  had  been  staring  at  the  fire  a 
minute,  looked  up.  "  It 's  a  pity  you  don't  fully  under- 
stand me,  that  you  don't  know  just  what  I'm  doing." 

"Oh,"  laughed  Newman,  "don't  do  anything 
wrong!  Leave  me  to  myself  rather,  or  defy  me  out 
and  out  to  try  it.  I  would  n't  lay  any  load  on  your 


conscience." 


Valentin  sprang  up  again,  evidently  quite  inflamed. 
"You'll  never  understand — you'll  never  know; 
and  if  you  succeed  and  I  turn  out  to  have  helped  you 
you  '11  never  be  grateful,  not  as  I  shall  deserve  you 
should  be.  You  '11  be  an  excellent  fellow  always,  but 
you  '11  not  be  grateful.  But  it  does  n't  matter,  for  I 
shall  get  my  own  fun  out  of  it."  And  he  broke  into 
an  extravagant  laugh.  "You  look  worried,"  he  added: 
"you  look  almost  alarmed." 

"It's  a  pity,"  said  Newman,  "that  I  don't  wholly 
catch  on.  I  shall  lose  some  very  good  sport." 

"  I  told  you,  you  remember,  that  we  're  very  strange 
people,"  his  visitor  pursued.  "  Well,  I  give  you  warn- 
ing again.  We  're  fit  for  a  museum  or  a  Balzac  novel. 
My  mother's  strange,  my  brother's  strange,  and  I 
verily  believe  I'm  stranger  than  either.  You'll 
even  find  my  sister  a  little  strange.  Old  trees  have 
crooked  branches,  old  houses  have  queer  cracks,  old 
races  have  odd  secrets.  Remember  that  we're  eight 
hundred  years  old!" 

"Very  good,"  said  Newman;  "that's  the  sort  of 
162 


THE  AMERICAN 

thing  I  came  to  Europe  for.  You're  made  for  me  to 
work  right  in." 

"Touchez-la  then,"  Bellegarde  returned,  putting 
out  his  hand.  "It's  a  bargain;  I  accept  you,  I  es- 
pouse your  cause.  It's  because  I  like  you,  in  a  great 
measure;  but  that's  not  the  only  reason."  And  he 
stood  holding  Newman's  hand  and  looking  at  him 
askance. 

"What's  the  other  one?" 

"Well,  I'm  in  the  Opposition.  I've  a  positive 
aversion  — !" 

"To  your  brother?"  asked  Newman  in  his  un- 
modulated voice. 

Valentin  laid  a  finger  on  his  lips  with  a  whispered 
hush!  "Old  races  have  strange  secrets!  Put  your- 
self into  motion.  Come  and  see  my  sister  and  be 
assured  of  my  sympathy!"  With  which  he  took 
leave  while  his  host  dropped  into  a  chair  before  th* 
fire.  Newman  stared  long  and  late  into  the  blaze. 


IX 


HE  called  on  Madame  de  Cintre  the  very  next  day, 
and  learnt  from  the  servant  that  she  was  at  home, 
He  passed  as  usual  up  the  large  cold  staircase  and 
through  a  spacious  vestibule  above,  where  the  walls 
seemed  all  composed  of  small  door-panels  touched 
with  long-faded  gilding;  whence  he  was  ushered 
into  the  sitting-room  in  which  he  had  already  been 
received.  It  was  empty,  but  the  footman  told  him 
that  Madame  la  Comtesse  would  presently  appear. 
He  had  time,  while  he  waited,  to  wonder  if  Belle- 
garde  had  seen  his  sister  since  the  evening  before 
and  if  in  this  case  he  had  spoken  to  her  of  their  talk. 
In  that  event  Madame  de  Cintre's  receiving  him 
was  not,  as  he  would  have  said,  a  bucket  of  cold 
water.  He  felt  a  certain  trepidation  as  he  reflected 
that  she  might  come  in  with  the  knowledge  of  his 
supreme  admiration  and  of  the  project  he  had  built 
on  it  in  her  eyes;  but  the  apprehension  conveyed  no 
chill.  Her  face  could  wear  no  look  that  would  make 
it  less  beautiful,  and  he  was  sure  beforehand  that, 
however  she  might  take  the  proposal  he  had  in  re- 
serve, she  would  n't  make  him  pay  for  it  in  the  least 
to  his  ruin.  He  had  a  belief  that  if  she  could  only 
look  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  and  see  it  all  bared 
to  the  quick  for  her  she  would  be  entirely  kind. 

She  came  in  at  last,  after  so  long  an  interval  that  he 
wondered  if  she  had  been  hesitating.     She  smiled 

164 


THE  AMERICAN 

at  him,  as  usual,  without  constraint,  and  her  great 
mild  eyes,  while  she  held  out  her  hand,  seemed  to 
shine  at  him  perhaps  even  straighter  than  before. 
She  then  remarkably  observed,  without  a  tremor  in 
her  voice,  that  she  was  glad  to  see  him  and  that  she 
hoped  he  was  well.  He  found  in  her  what  he  had 
found  before  —  that  faint  perfume  of  a  personal 
diffidence  worn  away  by  contact  with  the  world,  but 
the  more  perceptible  the  more  closely  she  was  ap- 
proached. This  subtle  shyness  gave  a  peculiar  value 
to  what  was  definite  and  assured  in  her  manner, 
making  it  an  acquired  accomplishment,  a  beautiful 
talent,  something  that  one  might  compare  to  an 
exquisite  touch  in  a  pianist.  It  was,  in  fact,  her 
"authority,"  as  they  say  of  artists,  that  especially 
impressed  and  fascinated  him;  he  always  came  back 
to  the  feeling  that,  when  he  should  have  rounded  out 
his  "success"  by  the  right  big  marriage,  this  was  the 
way  he  should  like  his  wife  to  express  the  size  of  it 
to  the  world.  The  only  trouble  indeed  was  that  when 
the  instrument  was  so  perfect  it  seemed  to  interpose 
too  much  between  the  audience  and  the  composer. 
She  gave  him,  the  charming  woman,  the  sense  of  an 
elaborate  education,  of  her  having  passed  through 
mysterious  ceremonies  and  processes  of  culture  in 
her  youth,  of  her  having  been  fashioned  and  made 
flexible  to  certain  deep  social  needs.  All  this,  as 
I  have  noted,  made  her  seem  rare  and  precious  — 
a  very  expensive  article,  as  he  would  have  said,  and 
one  which  a  man  with  an  ambition  to  have  every- 
thing about  him  of  the  best  would  taste  of  triumph 
in  possessing.  Yet  looking  at  the  matter  with  an  eye 

I05 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  private  felicity  he  asked  himself  where,  in  so  ex- 
quisite a  compound,  nature  and  art  showed  their 
dividing-line.  Where  did  the  special  intention  separ- 
ate from  the  habit  of  good  manners  ?  Where  did 
fine  urbanity  end  and  fine  sincerity  begin  ?  He  in- 
dulged in  these  questions  even  while  he  stood  ready 
to  accept  the  admired  object  in  all  its  complexity; 
he  felt  indeed  he  could  do  so  in  profound  security, 
examining  its  mechanism  afterwards  and  at  leisure. 
"I'm  very  glad  to  find  you  alone.  You  know  I've 
never  had  such  good  luck  before." 

"But  you've  seemed  before  very  well  contented 
with  your  luck,"  said  Madame  de  Cintre.  "  You've 
sat  and  watched  my  visitors  as  comfortably  as  from 
a  box  at  the  opera.  What  have  you  thought  of  our 
poor  performance  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  've  thought  the  ladies  very  bright  and  very 
graceful,  wonderfully  quick  at  repartee.  But  what 
I've  chiefly  thought  has  been  that  they  only  help 
me  to  admire  you."  This  was  not  the  habit  of  the 
pretty  speech  on  Newman's  part,  the  art  of  the  pretty 
speech  never  having  attained  great  perfection  with 
him.  It  was  simply  the  instinct  of  the  practical  man 
who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  what  he  wanted 
and  was  now  beginning  to  take  active  steps  to  ob- 
tain it. 

She  started  slightly  and  raised  her  eyebrows;  she 
had  evidently  not  expected  so  straight  an  advance. 
"Oh,  in  that  case,"  she  none  the  less  gaily  said,  "your 
finding  me  alone  is  n't  good  luck  for  me.  I  hope 
some  one  will  come  in  quickly." 

"I  hope  not,"  Newman  returned.  "I've  some- 
166 


THE  AMERICAN 

rhing  particular  to  say  to  you.  Have  you  seen  your 
brother  Valentine  ?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  him  an  hour  ago." 

44  Did  he  tell  you  that  he  had  seen  me  last  night  ?" 

'*!  think  he  spoke  of  it/' 

"  And  did  he  tell  you  what  we  had  talked  about  ?" 

She  visibly  hesitated.  While  Newman  made  rhese 
enquiries  she  had  grown  a  little  pale,  as  if  taking 
what  might  impend  for  inevitable  rather  than  con- 
venient. **  Did  you  give  him  a  message  to  me  ?" 

"It  was  not  exactly  a  message.  I  asked  him  to 
render  me  a  service." 

"The  service  was  to  sing  your  praises,  was  it  not  ?" 
She  had  been  clearly  careful  to  utter  this  question  in 
the  tone  of  trifling. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  it  really  amounts  to,"  said  New- 
man. "Did  he  therefore  sing  my  praises?" 

"He  spoke  very  well  of  you.  But  when  I  know 
that  it  was  by  special  request  I  must  of  course  take 
his  eulogy  with  a  grain  of  salt." 

"Ah,  that  makes  no  difference,"  Newman  went 
on.  "Your  brother  wouldn't  have  spoken  well  of 
me  unless  he  believed  what  he  was  saying.  He's 
too  honest  for  that." 

"Are  you  a  great  diplomatist?"  she  answered. 
"Are  you  trying  to  please  me  by  praising  my  bro- 
ther ?  I  confess  it 's  a  good  way." 

"  For  me  any  way  that  succeeds  will  be  good.  I  '11 
praise  your  brother  all  day  if  that  will  help  me.  I  just 
love  him,  you  know,  and  I  regard  him  as  perfectly 
straight.  He  has  made  me  feel,  in  promising  to  do 
what  he  can  to  help  me,  that  I  can  depend  upon  him." 

167 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  Don't  make  too  much  of  that,"  said  Madame  de 
Cintre.  "He  can  help  you  very  little." 

"Of  course  1  must  work  my  way  myself.  I  know 
that  very  well;  I  only  want  a  chance  to.  In  consent- 
ing to  see  me,  after  what  he  told  you,  you  almost 
seem  to  be  giving  me  a  chance." 

"I'm  seeing  you,"  she  slowly  and  gravely  pro- 
nounced, "  because  I  promised  my  brother  I  would." 

"Blessings  on  your  brother's  head  then!"  New- 
man cried.  "What  I  told  him  last  evening  was  this: 
that  I  admired  you  more  than  any  woman  I  had  ever 
seen  and  that  1  should  like  extraordinarily  to  make 
you  my  wife."  He  spoke  these  words  with  great 
directness  and  firmness  and  without  any  sense  of 
confusion.  He  was  full  of  his  idea,  he  had  completely 
mastered  it,  and  he  seemed  to  look  down  on  the 
woman  he  addressed,  and  on  all  her  gathered  graces, 
from  the  height  of  his  bracing  good  conscience.  It 
is  probable  that  this  particular  tone  and  manner  were 
the  very  best  he  could  have  adopted;  yet  the  light, 
just  visibly  forced  smile  with  which  she  had  listened 
to  him  died  away  and  she  sat  looking  at  him  with 
her  lips  parted  and  her  face  almost  as  portentous 
as  a  tragic  mask.  There  was  evidently  an  incon- 
venience amounting  to  pain  for  her  in  this  extrava- 
gant issue;  her  impatience  of  it,  however,  found  no 
angry  voice.  Newman  wondered  if  he  were  hurting 
her;  he  could  n't  imagine  why  the  liberal  devotion 
he  meant  to  express  should  be  offensive.  He  got  up 
and  stood  before  her,  leaning  one  hand  on  the  chim- 
ney-piece. "I  know  I've  seen  you  very  little  to  say 
this,  so  little  that  it  may  make  what  I  say  seem  dis- 

168 


THE  AMERICAN 

respectful.  But  that  s  my  misfortune.  I  could  have 
said  it  at  the  first  time  I  saw  you.  Really  I  had  seen 
you  before;  I  had  seen  you  in  imagination;  you 
seemed  almost  an  old  friend.  So  what  I  say,  you 
can  at  least  believe,  is  not  mere  grand  talk  in  the  air, 
an  exaggerated  compliment.  I  can't  talk  for  any 
effect  but  one  I  want  very  much  to  bring  about,  and 
I  would  n't  to  you  if  I  could.  What  I  say  is  as  serious 
as  such  words  can  be.  I  feel  as  if  I  knew  you  and 
knew  how  fine  and  rare  and  true  you  are.  I  shall 
know  better  perhaps  some  day,  but  I  have  a  general 
notion  now.  You're  just  the  woman  I've  been  look- 
ing for,  except  that  you  're  far  more  perfect.  I  won't 
make  any  protestations  and  vows,  but  you  can  trust 
me.  It's  very  soon,  I  know,  to  say  all  this;  it  may 
almost  shock  you.  But  why  not  gain  time  if  one  can  ? 
And  if  you  want  time  to  reflect  —  as  of  course  you  'd 
do  —  the  sooner  you  begin  the  better  for  me.  I  don't 
know  what  you  think  of  me;  but  there's  no  great 
mystery,  nor  anything  at  all  difficult  to  tell,  about 
me  —  nor  difficult  to  understand.  Your  brother  told 
me  that  my  antecedents  and  occupations  will  be 
against  me;  that  your  family  has  a  social  standing  so 
high  that  I  can't  be  taken  as  coming  up  to  it.  Well, 
I  don't  know  about  coming  'up' —  I  don't  think 
you  can  very  well  keep  me  down,  anywhere.  You 
can't  make  a  man  feel  low  unless  you  can  make 
him  feel  base;  and  if  you  may  fit  yourself  into  any 
class  you  see  your  way  to,  you  can*t  fit  him  where 
he  won't  go.  But  I  don't  believe  you  care  anything 
about  that.  I  can  assure  you  there's  quite  enough 
of  me  to  last,  and  that  if  I  give  my  mind  to  it  I  can 

169 


THE  AMERICAN 

arrange  things  so  that  in  a  very  few  years  I  shall  not 
need  to  waste  time  in  explaining  who  I  am  and  how 
much  I  matter.  You  '11  decide  for  yourself  if  you  like 
me  or  not.  I  honestly  believe  I've  no  hidden  vices 
nor  nasty  tricks.  I'm  kind,  kind,  kind!  Everything 
that  a  man  can  give  a  woman  I'll  give  you.  I've 
a  large  fortune,  a  very  large  fortune;  some  day,  if 
you  Jll  allow  me,  I  '11  go  into  details.  If  you  want 
grandeur,  everything  in  the  way  of  grandeur  that 
money  can  give  you,  why  you  shall  have  it.  And  as 
regards  anything  you  may  give  up,  don't  take  for 
granted  too  much  that  its  place  can't  be  filled.  Leave 
that  to  me  —  I  've  filled  some  places.  I  '11  take  care 
of  you;  I  shall  know  what  you  need.  I  would  n't 
talk  if  I  did  n't  believe  I  knew  how.  I  want  you  to 
feel  I  'm  strong,  because  if  you  do  that  will  be  enough. 
There;  I  have  said  what  I  had  on  my  heart.  It  was 
better  to  get  it  off.  I'm  very  sorry  if  it  worries  you; 
but  the  air's  clearer  —  don't  you  already  see?  If 
I  've  made  a  mistake  we  had  better  not  have  met  at 
all;  and  I  can't  think  that,  Madame  de  Cintre,  can 
you?"  Newman  asked.  "Don't  answer  me  now,  if 
you  don't  wish  it.  Think  about  it;  think  about  it 
only  a  little  at  a  time,  if  you  want.  Of  course  I  have  n't 
said,  I  can't  say,  half  I  mean,  especially  about  my 
admiration  for  you.  But  take  a  favourable  view  of 
me;  it  will  only  be  just." 

During  this  speech,  the  longest  personal  plea,  of  any 
kind,  that  he  h'ad  ever  uttered  in  his  life,  she  kept  her 
gaze  fixed  on  him,  and  it  expanded  at  the  last  into 
a  sort  of  fascinated  stare.  When  he  ceased  speaking 
she  lowered  it  and  sat  for  some  moments  looking 

170 


THE  AMERICAN 

down  and  straight  before  her.  Then  she  slowly  rose 
to  her  feet,  and  a  pair  of  exceptionally  keen  eyes 
would  have  made  out  in  her  an  extraordinarily  fine 
tremor.  She  still  looked  extremely  serious.  "I'm 
very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  offer.  It  seems 
to  me  very  strange,  but  I  'm  glad  you  spoke  without 
waiting  any  longer.  It's  better  the  subject  should 
be  dismissed  between  us.  I  appreciate  immensely 
all  you  say;  you  do  me  great  honour.  But  I've  de- 
cided not  to  marry." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!"  cried  Newman  with  the 
very  innocence  of  pleading  desire.  She  had  turned 
away,  and  it  made  her  stop  a  moment  with  her  back 
to  him.  "Think  better  of  that.  You're  too  young, 
too  beautiful,  too  much  made  to  be  happy  and  to 
make  others  happy.  If  you  're  afraid  of  losing  your 
freedom  I  can  assure  you  that  this  freedom  here, 
the  life  you  now  lead,  is  a  dreary  bondage  to  what 
I  '11  offer  you.  You  shall  do  things  that  I  don't  think 
you  've  ever  thought  of.  I  '11  take  you  to  live  anywhere 
in  the  wide  world  you  may  want.  Are  you  unhappy  ? 
You  give  me  a  feeling  that  you  are  unhappy.  You  've 
no  right  to  be,  or  to  be  made  so.  Let  me  come  in 
and  put  an  end  to  it." 

The  young  woman  waited,  but  looking  again  all 
away  from  him.  If  she  was  touched  by  the  way  he 
spoke  the  thing  was  conceivable.  His  voice,  always 
very  mild,  almost  flatly  soft  and  candidly  interroga- 
tive for  so  full  an  organ,  had  become  as  edgeless 
and  as  tenderly  argumentative  as  if  he  had  been  talk- 
ing to  a  much-loved  child.  He  stood  watching  her, 
and  she  presently  turned  again,  but  with  her  face 


THE  AMERICAN 

not  really  meeting  his  own;  and  she  spoke  with  r 
quietness  in  which  there  was  a  visible  trace  of  effort. 
"There  are  a  great  many  reasons  why  I  should  n't 
marry  —  more,  I  beg  you  to  believe,  than  I  can  ex- 
plain to  you.  As  for  my  happiness,  I'm  perfectly 
content.  If  I  call  your  proposal  *  strange '  it 's  also 
for  more  reasons  than  I  can  say.  Of  course  you  Ve 
a  perfect  right  to  make  it.  But  I  can't  accept  it  — 
that 's  impossible.  Please  never  speak  of  the  matter 
again.  If  you  can't  promise  me  this  I  must  ask  you 
not  to  come  back." 

"Why  is  it  impossible?"  he  demanded  with  an 
insistence  that  came  easily  to  him  now.  "You  may 
think  it  is  at  first  without  its  really  being  so.  I  did  n't 
expect  you  to  be  pleased  at  first,  but  I  do  believe  that 
if  you  '11  think  of  it  a  good  while  you  may  finally  be 
satisfied." 

"  I  don't  know  you,"  she  returned  after  a  moment. 
"Think  how  little  I  know  you!" 

"Very  little  of  course,  and  therefore  I  don't  ask 
for  your  ultimatum  on  the  spot.  I  only  ask  you  not 
simply  to  put  me  off.  I  only  ask  you  to  let  me  *  stay 
round/  and  by  so  doing  to  let  me  hope.  I'll  wait  as 
long  as  ever  you  want.  Meanwhile  you  can  see  mon 
of  me  and  know  me  better,  look  at  me  in  the  light  — 
well,  of  my  presumption,  yes,  but  of  other  things  too. 
You  can  make  up  your  mind." 

Something  was  going  on,  rapidly,  in  her  spirit; 
she  was  weighing  a  question  there  beneath  his  eyes, 
weighing  it  and  deciding  it.  "From  the  moment 
I  don't  very  respectfully  beg  you  to  leave  the  house 
and  never  return  I  listen  to  you  —  I  seem  to  give 

172 


THE  AMERICAN 

you  hope.  I  have  listened  to  you  —  against  my  judge- 
ment. It's  because,  you  see,  you're  eloquent.  Yes," 
she  almost  panted,  "you  touch  me.  If  I  had  been 
told  this  morning  that  I  should  consent  to  consider 
you  as  a  person  wishing  to  come  so  very  near  me 
I  should  have  thought  my  informant  a  little  crazy. 
I  am  listening  to  you,  you  see!"  And  she  threw  her 
arms  up  for  a  moment  and  let  them  drop  with  a 
gesture  in  which  there  was  just  an  expression  of 
surrendering  weakness. 

"Well,  as  far  as  saying  goes,  I've  said  everything," 
Newman  replied.  "  I  believe  in  you  without  restric- 
tion, and  I  think  all  the  good  of  you  it's  possible  to 
think  of  a  human  creature.  I  firmly  believe  that  in 
marrying  me  you'll  be  safe.  As  I  said  just  now," 
he  went  on  with  his  smile  as  of  hard  experience, 
"I've  no  bad  ways.  I  can  really  do  so  much  for  you! 
And  if  you  're  afraid  that  I  'm  not  what  you  've  been 
accustomed  to,  not  as  refined  and  cultivated,  or  even 
as  pleasant  all  round,  as  your  standard  requires,  you 
may  easily  carry  that  too  far.  I  am  refined  —  I  am 
pleasant.  Just  you  try  me!" 

Claire  de  Cintre  got  still  further  away  and  paused 
before  a  great  plant,  an  azalea,  which  flourished  in 
a  porcelain  tub  before  her  window.  She  plucked  off 
one  of  the  flowers  and,  twisting  it  in  her  fingers, 
retraced  her  steps.  Then  she  sat  down  in  silence, 
and  her  attitude  seemed  a  consent  that  he  should  say 
more.  She  might  almost  be  liking  it. 

"Why  should  you  say  it's  impossible  you  should 
marry?"  he  therefore  continued.  "The  only  thing 
that  could  make  it  really  impossible  would  be  your 

173 


THE  AMERICAN 

being  already  subject  to  that  tie!  —  which  must  be 
awful,  I  admit,  when  it's  only  a  grind.  Is  it  because 
you  Jve  been  unhappy  in  marriage  ?  That 's  all  the 
more  reason.  Is  it  because  your  family  exert  a  press- 
ure on  you,  interfere  with  you  or  worry  you  ?  That's 
still  another  reason:  you  ought  to  be  perfectly  free, 
and  marriage  will  make  you  so.  I  don't  say  anything 
against  your  family  —  understand  that!"  added 
Newman  with  an  eagerness  which  might  have  made 
a  perspicacious  witness  smile.  "Whatever  way  you 
feel  about  them  is  the  right  way,  and  anything  you 
should  wish  me  to  do  to  make  myself  agreeable  to 
them  I  '11  do  as  well  as  I  know  how.  They  may  put 
me  through  what  they  like  —  I  guess  I  shall  hold  out!" 

She  rose  again  and  came  to  the  fire  near  which  he 
had  hovered.  The  expression  of  pain  and  embarrass- 
ment had  passed  out  of  her  face,  and  it  had  sub- 
mitted itself  with  a  kind  of  grace  in  which  there 
might  have  been  indeed  a  kind  of  art.  She  had  the 
air  of  a  woman  who  had  stepped  across  the  frontier  of 
friendship  and  looks  round  her  a  little  bewildered 
to  find  the  spaces  larger  than  those  marked  in  her 
customary  chart.  A  certain  checked  and  controlled 
exaltation  played  through  the  charm  of  her  dignity. 
"I  won't  refuse  to  see  you  again,  because  much  of 
what  you've  said  has  given  me  pleasure.  But  I  will 
see  you  only  on  this  condition :  that  you  say  nothing 
more  in  the  same  way  for  a  long  long  time." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'long  long'  —  ?" 

"Well,  I  mean  six  months.  It  must  be  a  solemn 
promise." 

"Very  good;   I  promise." 
174 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Good-bye  then."  And  she  put  out  her  hand. 

He  held  it  a  moment  as  if  to  say  more.  But  he  only 
looked  at  her  —  "long,  long";  then  he  took  his 
departure. 

That  evening,  on  the  Boulevard,  he  met  Valentin 
de  Bellegarde.  After  they  had  exchanged  greetings 
he  told  him  he  had  seen  his  sister  a  few  hours  before. 

"I  know  it,  pardieu!"  said  Valentin.  "I  dined 
la-las"  With  which,  for  some  moments,  both  men 
were  silent.  Newman  wished  to  ask  what  visible 
impression  his  visit  had  made,  but  the  Count  had 
a  question  of  his  own  and  he  ended  by  speaking  first. 
"It's  none  of  my  business,  but  what  the  deuce  did 
you  say  to  Claire  ?" 

"  I  'm  quite  willing  to  tell  you  I  made  her  an  offer 
of  marriage." 

"Already!"  And  the  young  man  gave  a  whistle. 
'Time  is  money! '  Is  that  what  you  say  in  America  ? 
And  my  sister  —  ?"  he  discreetly  added. 

"She  did  n't  close  with  me." 

"  She  could  n't,  you  know,  in  that  way." 

"But  I'm  to  see  her  again,"  said  Newman. 

"Oh,  the  strangeness  of  ces  dames!"  Then  he 
stopped  and  held  Newman  off  at  arm's  length.  "  I 
look  at  you  with  respect!  You've  achieved  what  we 
call  a  personal  success!  Immediately,  now,  I  must 
present  you  to  my  brother." 

"Whenever  you  like  1"  said  Newman. 


NEWMAN  continued  to  see  his  other  good  friends 
with  scarce-diminished  frequency,  though  if  you  had 
listened  to  Mrs.  Tristram's  account  of  the  matter 
you  would  have  supposed  they  had  been  cynically 
repudiated  for  the  sake  of  grander  acquaintance. 
"We  were  all  very  well  so  long  as  we  had  no  rivals 
—  we  were  better  than  nothing.  But  now  that  you  've 
become  the  fashion  and  have  your  pick  every  day 
of  three  invitations  to  dinner,  we're  tossed  into  the 
corner.  I  'm  sure  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  and 
see  us  once  a  month;  I  wonder  you  don't  send  us 
your  cards  in  an  envelope.  When  you  do,  pray  have 
them  with  black  edges;  it  will  be  for  the  death  of  my 
last  illusion."  It  was  in  this  incisive  strain  she  moral- 
ised over  Newman's  so-called  neglect,  which  was  in 
truth  a  most  excellent  constancy.  Of  course  she  was 
joking,  but  she  embroidered  with  a  sharp  needle. 

" 1  know  no  better  proof  that  1  've  treated  you  very 
well,"  Newman  had  said,  "than  the  fact  that  you 
make  so  free  with  my  character.  I  've  let  you  tweak 
my  nose,  I  've  allowed  you  the  run  of  the  animal's 
cage.  If  I  had  a  little  proper  pride  I  'd  stay  away  a 
while  and,  when  you  should  ask  me  to  dinner,  say 
I'm  going  to  Princess  Borealska's.  But  I  haven't 
any  pride  where  my  pleasure's  concerned,  and  to 
keep  you  in  the  humour  to  see  me  —  if  you  must  see 
me  only  to  call  me  bad  names  —  I  '11  agree  to  any- 

176 


THE  AMERICAN 

thing  you  choose;  I'll  admit  I  'm  the  biggest  kind  of 
a  sneak."  Newman  in  fact  had  declined  an  invita- 
tion personally  given  by  the  Princess  Borealska,  an 
enquiring  Polish  lady  to  whom  he  had  been  pre- 
sented, on  the  ground  that  on  that  particular  day  he 
always  dined  at  Mrs.  Tristram's;  and  it  was  only  a 
tenderly  perverse  theory  of  his  hostess  of  the  Avenue 
d'lena  that  he  was  faithless  to  his  early  friendships. 
She  needed  the  theory  to  explain  one  of  her  fine 
exasperations.  Having  launched  our  hero  on  the 
current  that  was  bearing  him  so  rapidly  along  she 
felt  but  half-pleased  at  its  swiftness.  She  had  suc- 
ceeded too  well;  she  had  played  her  game  too  cleverly 
and  wished  to  mix  up  the  cards.  Newman  had  told  her, 
in  due  season,  that  her  friend  was  "  quite  satisfactory." 
The  epithet  was  not  romantic,  but  Mrs.  Tristram  had 
no  difficulty  in  perceiving  that  in  essentials  the  feeling 
which  lay  beneath  it  was.  Indeed  the  mild  expansive 
brevity  with  which  it  was  uttered,  and  a  certain  look, 
at  once  appealing  and  inscrutable,  that  issued  from 
her  guest's  half-closed  eyes  as  he  leaned  his  head 
against  the  back  of  his  chair,  seemed  to  her  the  most 
eloquent  attestation  of  a  mature  sentiment  that  she 
had  ever  encountered.  He  was  only  abounding  in  her 
own  sense,  but  his  temperate  raptures  exerted  a  sin- 
gular effect  on  that  enthusiasm  with  which  she  had 
overflowed  a  few  months  before.  She  now  seemed 
inclined  to  take  a  purely  critical  view  of  Madame 
de  Cintre,  and  wished  to  have  it  understood  that  she 
did  n't  in  the  least  pretend  to  have  gone  into  a  final 
analysis  of  her  life,  or  in  other  words  of  her  honesty. 
"No  woman M  —  she  played  with  this  idea  — "can 


THE  AMERICAN 

be  so  good  as  that  one  seems.  Remember  what 
Shakespeare  calls  Desdemona:  'a  supersubtle  Vene- 
tian.' Claire  de  Cintre's  a  supersubtle  Parisian. 
She's  a  charming  creature  and  has  five  hundred 
merits;  but  you  had  better  keep  her  supersubtlety  in 
mind."  Was  Mrs.  Tristram  simply  finding  herself 
jealous  of  her  special  favourite  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Seine,  so  that  in  undertaking  to  provide  Newman 
with  an  ideal  wife  she  had  counted  too  much  on  the 
lapse  of  her  own  passions  and  her  immunity  from 
wild  yearnings  ?  We  may  be  permitted  to  doubt  it. 
The  inconsistent  little  lady  of  the  Avenue  d'lena  had 
an  insuperable  need  of  intellectual  movement,  of 
critical,  of  ironic  exercise.  She  had  a  lively  imagina- 
tion, and  was  capable  at  times  of  holding  views,  of 
entertaining  be'iefs,  directly  opposed  to  her  most 
cherished  opinions  and  convictions.  She  got  tired  of 
thinking  right,  but  there  was  no  serious  harm  in  it> 
as  she  got  equally  tired  of  thinking  wrong.  In  the 
midst  of  her  mysterious  perversities  she  had  ad- 
mirable flashes  of  justice.  One  of  these  occurred 
when  Newman  mentioned  to  her  that  he  had  made 
their  beautiful  friend  a  formal  offer  of  his  hand.  He 
repeated  in  a  few  words  what  he  had  said,  and  in 
a  great  many  what  she  had  answered,  and  Mrs.  Tris- 
tram listened  with  extreme  interest. 

"But  after  all,"  he  admitted,  "there's  nothing  to 
congratulate  me  upon.  It  is  not  much  of  a  triumph." 

"I  beg  your  pardon;  it's  a  great  triumph.  It's 
really  dazzling  that  she  did  n't  silence  you  at  the 
first  word  and  request  you  never  to  come  near  her 
again." 

178 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Well,  she  would  n't  have  got  much  by  that,"  he 
made  answer. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment.  "No  one,  I  think, 
gets  as  much  by  anything  as  you.  When  I  told  you 
to  go  your  own  way  and  do  what  came  into  your  head 
I  had  no  idea  you  'd  go  over  the  ground  so  fast.  I 
never  dreamed  you'd  propose  after  five  or  six  morn- 
ing calls.  What  had  you  done  as  yet  to  make  her  like 
you  ?  You  had  simply  sat  —  not  very  straight  — 
and  stared  at  her.  But  she  does  like  you." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen." 

"No,  it  only  remains  to  be  criticised.  What  will 
come  of  it  remains  to  be  seen.  That  you  should 
make  but  a  mouthful  of  her  marrying  you  without 
more  ado  could  never  have  come  into  her  head.  You 
can  form  very  little  idea  of  what  passed  through  her 
mind  as  you  spoke;  if  she  ever  really  takes  you  the 
affair  will  be  marked  by  the  usual  justice  of  all  human 
judgements  of  women.  You'll  think  you  take  gener- 
ous views  of  her,  but  you'll  never  begin  to  know 
through  what  a  strange  sea  of  feeling  she'll  have 
passed  before  accepting  you.  As  she  stood  there  in 
front  of  you  the  other  day  she  plunged  into  it.  She 
said  'Well,  why  not  ?'  to  something  that  a  few  hours 
earlier  Jiad  been  inconceivable.  She  turned  about  on 
a  thousand  gathered  prejudices  and  traditions  as  on 
a  pivot  and  looked  where  she  had  never  looked  till 
that  instant.  When  I  think  of  it,  when  I  think  of 
Claire  de  Cintre  and  all  that  she  represents,  there 
seems  to  me  something  very  fine  in  it.  When  1  re- 
commended you  to  try  your  fortune  with  her  I  of 
course  thought  well  of  you,  and  in  spite  of  your  base 

179 


THE  AMERICAN 

ingratitude  I  think  so  still.  But  I  confess  I  don't  sec 
quite  what  you  are  and  what  you've  done  to  make 
such  a  woman  go  these  extravagant  lengths  for  you." 

"Oh,  there's  something  very  fine  in  it!"  —  New- 
man laughed  as  he  repeated  her  words.  He  took  an 
extreme  satisfaction  in  hearing  that  there  was  some- 
thing very  fine  in  it.  He  had  not  the  least  doubt  of 
this  himself,  but  he  had  already  begun  to  value  the 
world's  view  of  his  possible  prize  as  adding  to  the 
prospective  glory  of  possession. 

It  was  immediately  after  this  passage  that  Valentin 
de  Bellegarde  came  to  conduct  his  friend  to  the  Rue 
de  PUniversite  and  present  him  to  the  other  members 
of  his  family.  "  You  're  already  introduced  and  you  've 
begun  to  be  talked  about.  My  sister  has  mentioned 
your  successive  visits  to  my  mother,  and  it  was  an 
accident  that  my  mother  was  present  at  none  of  them. 
I've  spoken  of  you  as  an  American  of  immense 
wealth,  and  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  who's 
looking  for  something  quite  superior  in  the  way  of 
a  wife." 

"Do  you  suppose,"  asked  Newman,  "that  Madame 
de  Cintre  has  reported  to  your  mother  the  last  con- 
versation I  had  with  her?" 

"  I  'm  very  certain  she  has  n't;  she  '11  keep  her  own 
counsel.  Meanwhile,"  Valentin  said,  "you  must 
make  your  way  with  the  rest  of  the  family.  Thus 
much  is  known  about  you  —  that  you  've  made  a 
great  fortune  in  trade,  that  you're  a  frank  outsider 
and  an  honest  eccentric,  and  that  you  furiously  ad- 
mire our  charming  Claire.  My  sister-in-law,  whom 
you  remember  seeing  in  Claire's  sitting-room,  took, 

1 80 


THE  AMERICAN 

it  appears,  a  marked  fancy  to  you;  she  has  described 
you  as  having  beaucoup  de  cachet.  My  mother  is 
therefore  curious  to  see  you." 

"She  expects  to  laugh  at  me,  eh  ?"  said  Newman. 

"She  never  laughs  —  or  at  least  never  expects  to. 
If  she  does  n't  like  you  don't  hope  to  purchase  favour 
iy  being  funny.  I  'm  funny —  take  warning  by  me!" 

This  conversation  took  place  in  the  evening,  and 
half  an  hour  later  Valentin  ushered  his  companion 
into  an  apartment  of  the  house  of  the  Rue  de  PUni- 
versite  into  which  he  had  not  yet  penetrated,  the 
salon  of  the  dowager  Marquise.  It  was  a  vast  high 
room,  with  elaborate  and  ponderous  mouldings, 
painted  a  whiteish  grey,  along  the  upper  portion  of 
the  walls  and  the  ceiling;  with  a  great  deal  of  faded 
and  carefully-repaired  tapestry  in  the  doorways  and 
chair-backs;  with  a  Turkey  carpet,  in  light  colours, 
still  soft  and  rich  despite  great  antiquity,  on  the  floor; 
and  with  portraits  of  each  of  Madame  de  Bellegarde's 
children  at  the  age  of  ten  suspended  against  an  old 
screen  of  red  silk.  The  dimness  was  diminished, 
exactly  enough  for  conversation,  by  half  a  dozen 
candles  placed  in  odd  corners  and  at  a  great  distance 
apart.  In  a  deep  armchair  near  the  fire  sat  an  old 
lady  in  black;  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  another 
person  was  seated  at  the  piano  and  playing  a  very 
expressive  waltz.  In  this  latter  person  Newman  re- 
cognised the  younger  Marquise. 

Valentin  presented  his  friend,  and  Newman  came 
sufficiently  near  to  the  old  lady  by  the  fire  to  take  in 
that  she  would  offer  him  no  handshake  —  so  that 
he  knew  he  had  the  air  of  waiting,  and  a  little  like 

181 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  customer  in  a  shop,  to  see  what  she  would  offer.  He 
received  a  rapid  impression  of  a  white,  delicate,  aged 
face,  with  a  hi!»h  forehead,  a  small  mouth  and  a  pair 
of  cold  blue  eyes  which  had  kept  much  of  the  clear- 
ness of  youth.  Madame  de  Bellegarde  looked  hard 
at  him  and  refused  what  she  did  refuse  with  a  sort 
of  British  positiveness  which  reminded  him  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Saint  Dunstans. 
Her  daughter-in-law  stopped  playing  and  gave  him 
an  agreeable  smile.  He  sat  down  and  looked  about 
him  while  Valentin  went  and  kissed  the  hand  of  the 
young  Marquise. 

"I  ought  to  have  seen  you  before,"  said  Madame 
de  Bellegarde.  "You've  paid  several  visits  to  my 
daughter." 

"Oh  yes,"  Newman  liberally  smiled;  "Madame  de 
Cintre  and  I  are  old  friends  by  this  time." 

"You've  gone  very  fast,"  she  went  on. 

"Not  so  fast  as  I  should  like." 

"Ah,  you're  very  ambitious,"  the  old  woman  re- 
turned. 

"Well,  if  I  don't  know  what  I  want  by  this  time 
I  suppose  I  never  shall/' 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  looked  at  him  with  her  cold 
fine  eyes,  and  he  returned  her  gaze,  reflecting  that 
she  was  a  possible  adversary  and  trying  to  take  her 
measure.  Their  eyes  remained  for  some  moments 
engaged;  then  she  looked  away  and,  without  smiling, 
"  I  'm  very  ambitious  too,"  she  said. 

Newman  felt  that  taking  her  measure  was  not 
easy;  she  was  a  formidable,  inscrutable  little  woman. 
She  resembled  her  daughter  as  an  insect  might  re- 

182 


THE  AMERICAN 

semble  a  flower.  The  colouring  in  Madame  de 
Cintre  was  the  same,  and  the  high  delicacy  of  her 
brow  and  nose  was  hereditary.  But  her  face  was  a 
larger  and  freer  copy,  and  her  mouth  in  especial  a 
happy  divergence  from  that  conservative  orifice, 
a  small  pair  of  lips  at  once  plump  and  pinched,  that 
suggested,  when  closed,  that  they  could  scarce  open 
wider  than  to  swallow  a  gooseberry  or  to  emit  an 
"Oh  dear  no!"  and  which  had  probably  been 
thought  to  give  the  finishing  touch  to  the  aristocratic 
prettiness  of  the  Lady  Emmeline  Atheling  as  repre- 
sented, half  a  century  before,  in  several  Books  of 
Beauty.  Madame  de  Cintre's  face  had,  to  Newman's 
eye,  a  range  of  expression  as  delightfully  vast  as  the 
wind-streaked,  cloud-flecked  distance  on  a  Western 
prairie;  but  her  mother's  white,  intense,  respectable 
countenance,  with  its  formal  gaze  and  its  circum- 
scribed smile,  figured  a  document  signed  and  sealed, 
a  thing  of  parchment,  ink  and  ruled  lines.  "She's 
a  woman  of  conventions  and  proprieties,"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  considered  her;  "  her  world  's  the  world 
of  things  immutably  decreed.  Bat  how  she's  at 
home  in  it  and  what  a  paradise  she  finds  it!  She  walks 
about  in  it  as  if  it  were  a  blooming  park,  a  Garden  of 
Eden;  and  when  she  sees  'This  is  genteel'  or  'This 
is  improper'  written  on  a  milestone  she  stops  as 
ecstatically  as  if  she  were  listening  to  a  nightingale 
or  smelling  a  rose."  Madame  de  Bellegarde  wore  a 
little  black  velvet  hood  tied  under  her  chin  and  was 
wrapped  in  an  old  black  cashmere  shawl.  "You're 
an  American  ? "  she  went  on  presently.  "  I  've  seen 
several  Americans." 

183 


THE  AMERICAN 

"There  are  several  in  Paris,"  Newman  jocosely 
said. 

"  Oh,  really  ?  It  was  in  England  I  saw  these,  or 
somewhere  else;  not  in  Paris.  I  think  it  must  have 
been  in  the  Pyrenees  many  years  ago.  I  'm  told  your 
ladies  are  very  pretty.  One  of  these  ladies  was  very 
pretty  —  with  such  a  wonderful  complexion.  She 
presented  me  a  note  of  introduction  from  some  one 
—  I  forget  whom  —  and  she  sent  with  it  a  note  of 
her  own.  I  kept  her  letter  a  long  time  afterwards, 
it  was  so  strangely  expressed.  I  used  to  know  some 
of  the  phrases  by  heart.  But  I've  forgotten  them 
now  —  it's  so  many  years  ago.  Since  then  I 've  seen 
no  more  Americans.  I  think  my  daughter-in-law 
has;  she's  a  great  gadabout;  she  sees  every  one." 

At  this  the  younger  lady  came  rustling  forward, 
pinching  in  a  very  slender  waist  and  casting  idly 
preoccupied  glances  over  the  front  of  her  dress, 
which  was  apparently  designed  for  a  ball.  She  was, 
in  a  singular  way,  at  once  ugly  and  pretty;  she  had 
protuberant  eyes  and  lips  that  were  strangely  red. 
She  reminded  Newman  of  his  friend  Mademoiselle 
Nioche;  this  was  what  that  much-hindered  young 
lady  would  have  liked  to  be.  Valentin  de  Bellegarde 
walked  behind  her  at  a  distance,  hopping  about  to 
keep  off  the  far-spreading  train  of  her  dress.  "  You 
ought  to  show  more  of  the  small  of  your  back,"  he 
said  very  gravely.  "  You  might  as  well  wear  a  stand- 
ing ruff  as  such  a  dress  as  that." 

The  young  woman  turned  to  the  mirror  over  the 
chimney-piece  the  part  of  her  person  so  designated, 
and  glanced  behind  her  to  verify  this  judgement. 


THE  AMERICAN 

The  mirror  descended  low  and  yet  reflected  nothing 
but  a  large  unclad  flesh-surface.  Its  possessor  put 
her  hands  behind  her  and  gave  a  downward  pull  to 
the  waist  of  her  dress.  "  Like  that,  you  mean  ? " 

"That's  a  little  better,"  said  Valentin  in  the  same 
tone,  "  but  it  leaves  a  good  deal  to  be  desired." 

"Oh,  I  never  go  to  extremes."  And  then  turning 
to  Madame  de  Bellegarde,  "What  were  you  calling 
me  just  now,  madame?"  her  daughter-in-law  en- 
quired. 

"I  called  you  a  gadabout.  But  I  might  call  you 
something  else  too." 

"A  gadabout?  What  an  ugly  word!  What  does 
it  mean  ? " 

"A  very  beautiful  lady,"  Newman  ventured  to  say, 
seeing  that  it  was  in  French. 

"That's  a  pretty  compliment  but  a  bad  transla- 
tion," the  young  Marquise  returned.  After  which, 
looking  at  him  a  moment :  "  Do  you  dance  ? " 

"  Not  a  step." 

"You  lose  a  great  deal,"  she  said  simply.  And  with 
another  look  at  her  back  in  the  mirror  she  turned  away. 

"  Do  you  like  Paris  ?"  asked  the  old  lady,  who  was 
apparently  wondering  what  was  the  proper  way  to 
talk  to  an  American. 

"I  think  that  must  be  the  matter  with  me,"  he 
smiled.  And  then  he  added  with  a  friendly  intona- 
tion :  "  Don't  you  like  it  ? " 

"  I  can't  say  I  know  it.  I  know  my  house  —  I 
know  my  friends  —  I  don't  know  Paris." 

"You  lose  a  great  deal,  as  your  daughter-in-lavi 
says,"  Newman  replied. 


THE  AMERICAN 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  stared;  it  was  presumably 
the  first  time  she  had  been  condoled  with  on  her 
losses.  "I'm  content,  I  think,  with  what  I  have," 
she  said  with  dignity.  Her  visitor's  eyes  were  at  this 
moment  wandering  round  the  room,  which  struck 
him  as  rather  sad  and  shabby;  passing  from  the  high 
casements,  with  their  small  thickly-framed  panes,  to 
the  sallow  tints  of  two  or  three  portraits  in  pastel, 
of  the  last  century,  which  hung  between  them.  He 
ought  obviously  to  have  answered  that  the  content- 
ment of  his  hostess  was  quite  natural  —  she  had  so 
much;  but  the  idea  did  n't  occur  to  him  during  the 
pause  of  some  moments  which  followed. 

"Well,  my  dear  mother,"  said  Valentin  while  he 
came  and  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece,  "what 
do  you  think  of  my  good  friend  ?  Is  n't  he  the  re- 
markably fine  man  I  told  you  of?" 

"My  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Newman  has  not 
gone  very  far,"  Madame  de  Bellegarde  replied.  "I  can 
as  yet  only  appreciate  his  great  politeness." 

"My  mother's  a  great  judge  of  these  matters," 
Valentin  went  on  to  Newman.  "  If  you  've  satisfied 
her  it's  a  triumph." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  satisfy  you  some  day,"  said  New- 
man to  the  old  lady.  "I've  done  nothing  yet." 

"You  mustn't  listen  to  my  son;  he'll  bring  you 
into  trouble.  He's  a  sad  scatterbrain,"  she  de- 
clared. 

Newman  took  it  genially.  "Oh,  I've  got  to  like 
him  so  that  I  can't  do  without  him." 

"He  amuses  you,  eh  ?" 

"I  think  it  must  be  that." 
1 86 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Valentin?"  said  his  mother, 
"You  exist  for  the  amusement  of  Mr.  Newman." 

"Perhaps  we  shall  all  come  to  that!"  Valentin 
exclaimed. 

"You  must  see  my  other  son,"  she  pursued. 
"  He 's  much  better  than  this  one.  But  he  '11  not  amuse 
you." 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know! "  Valentin  thought- 
fully objected.  "But  we  shall  very  soon  see.  Here 
comes  monsieur  mon  frere."  The  door  had  just 
opened  to  give  ingress  to  a  gentleman  who  stepped 
forward  and  whose  face  Newman  remembered  as 
that  of  the  author  of  his  discomfiture  the  first  time 
of  his  calling.  Valentin  went  to  meet  his  brother, 
looked  at  him  a  moment  and  then,  taking  him  by  the 
arm,  led  him  up  to  their  guest.  "This  is  my  excellent 
friend  Mr.  Newman,"  he  said  very  blandly.  "You 
must  know  him  if  you  can." 

"I'm  delighted  to  know  Mr.  Newman,"  said  the 
Marquis  with  an  unaccompanied  salutation. 

"He's  the  old  woman  at  second-hand,"  Newman 
reflected  with  the  sense  of  having  his  health  drunk 
from  an  empty  glass.  And  this  was  the  starting-point 
of  a  speculative  theory,  in  his  mind,  that  the  late 
head  of  this  noble  family  had  been  a  very  amiable 
foreigner  with  an  inclination  to  take  life  easily  and 
a  sense  that  it  was  difficult  for  the  husband  of  the 
stilted  little  lady  by  the  fire  to  do  so.  But  if  he  had 
found  small  comfort  in  his  wife  he  had  found  much 
in  his  two  younger  children,  who  were  after  his  own 
heart,  while  Madame  de  Bellegarde  had  paired  with 
her  eldest-born. 

'is? 


THE  AMERICAN 

"My  brother  has  spoken  to  me  of  you,"  said  M.  de 
Bellegarde,  "and  as  you  are  also  acquainted  with  my 
sister  it  was  time  we  should  meet."  He  turned  to  his 
mother  and  gallantly  bent  over  her  hand,  touching 
it  with  his  lips;  after  which  he  assumed  a  position 
before  the  chimney-piece.  With  his  long  lean  face, 
his  high-bridged  nose  and  small  opaque  eyes  he 
favoured,  in  the  old  phrase,  the  English  strain  in  his 
blood.  His  whiskers  were  fair  and  glossy  and  he  had 
a  large  dimple,  of  unmistakeable  British  origin,  in  the 
middle  of  his  handsome  chin.  He  was  "  distinguished  " 
to  the  tips  of  his  polished  nails,  and  there  was  not 
a  movement  of  his  fine  perpendicular  person  that  was 
not  noble  and  majestic.  Newman  had  never  yet  been 
confronted  with  such  an  incarnation  of  the  main- 
tained attitude;  he  felt  himself  in  presence  of  some- 
thing high  and  unusual. 

"Urbain,"  said  young  Madame  de  Bellegarde, 
who  had  apparently  been  waiting  for  her  husband 
to  take  her  to  her  ball,  "  I  call  your  attention  to  the 
fact  that  I'm  dressed." 

"That's  a  good  idea  —  to  show  what  you  claim 
for  it,"  Valentin  commented. 

"I'm  at  your  orders,  dear  friend,"  said  M.  de 
Bellegarde.  "Only  you  must  allow  me  first  the 
pleasure  of  a  little  conversation  with  Mr.  Newman." 

"  Oh,  if  you  're  going  to  a  party  don't  let  me  keep 
you;  I'm  so  sure  we  shall  meet  again.  Indeed  if 
you'd  like  to  meet  me  I'll  gladly  name  an  hour." 
He  was  eager  to  make  it  known  that  he  would  readily 
answer  all  questions  and  satisfy  all  exactions. 

M.  de  Beilegarde  stood  in  a  well-balanced  position 
1 88 


THE  AMERICAN 

before  the  fire,  caressing  one  of  his  fair  whiskers  with 
one  of  his  white  hands  and  looking  at  our  friend, 
half-askance,  with  eyes  from  which  a  particular  ray 
of  observation  made  its  way  through  a  general  mean- 
ingless smile.  "It's  very  kind  of  you  to  make  such 
an  offer.  If  I  'm  not  mistaken  your  occupations  are 
such  as  to  make  your  time  precious.  You  're  in  — 
a  —  as  we  say  —  a  —  dans  les  affaires  ?" 

"In  business,  you  mean?  Oh  no,  I've  thrown 
business  overboard  for  the  present.  I  'm  regularly 
'  loafing/  as  we  say.  My  time 's  quite  my  own." 

"Ah,  you're  taking  a  holiday,"  rejoined  M.  de 
Bellegarde.  "' Loafing/  Yes,  I've  heard  that  ex- 
pression." 

"Mr.  Newman's  a  distinguished  American," 
Madame  de  Bellegarde  observed. 

"My  brother's  a  great  ethnologist,"  said  Valentin. 

"An  ethnologist?"  —  and  Newman  groped  for 
gaiety.  "You  collect  negroes'  skulls  and  that  sort 
of  thing?" 

The  Marquis  looked  hard  at  his  brother  and  began 
to  caress  his  other  whisker.  Then  turning  to  their 
new  acquaintance  with  sustained  urbanity:  "You're 
travelling  for  pure  recreation  ?" 

"Well,  I'm  visiting  your  country,  sir,"  Newman 
replied  with  a  certain  conscious  patience  —  a  pa^ 
tience  he  felt  he  on  his  side  too  could  push,  should 
need  be,  to  stiffness;  "and  I  confess  I'm  having  a 
good  time  in  it.  Of  course  I  get  a  good  deal  of  pleas- 
ure out  of  it." 

"What  more  especially  interests  you?"  the  Mar 
Quis  benevolently  pursued. 

i  So 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Well,"  our  friend  continued,  "the  life  of  the 
people,  for  one  thing,  interests  me.  Your  people  are 
very  taking.  But  economically,  technically,  as  it  were, 
manufactures  are  what  I  care  most  about." 

"Those  —  a  —  products  have  been  your  special- 
ity?" 

"I  can't  say  I  have  had  any  speciality.  My  special- 
ity has  been  to  accumulate  the  largest  convenient 
competency  in  the  shortest  possible  time."  Newman 
made  this  last  remark  very  designedly  and  deliber- 
ately; he  wished  to  open  the  way,  should  it  be  neces- 
sary, to  an  authoritative  statement  of  his  means. 

M.  de  Bellegarde  laughed  agreeably.  "  I  hope  you 
enjoy  the  sense  of  that  success." 

"Oh,  one  has  stilly  at  my  age,  the  sense  also  of 
what's  left  to  do.  I'm  not  so  very  old,"  our  hero 
candidly  explained. 

"Well,  Paris  is  a  very  good  place  to  spend  a  for- 
tune. I  wish  you  all  the  advantages  of  yours."  And 
M.  de  Bellegarde  drew  forth  his  gloves  and  began  to 
put  them  on. 

Newman  for  a  few  moments  watched  him  sliding 
his  fair,  fat  hands  into  the  pearly  kid,  and  as  he  did 
so  his  feelings  took  a  singular  turn.  M.  de  Belle- 
garde's  good  wishes  seemed  to  flutter  down  on  him 
from  the  cold  upper  air  with  the  soft,  scattered  move- 
ment of  a  shower  of  snowflakes.  Yet  he  was  not  irri- 
tated; he  did  n't  feel  that  he  was  being  patronised; 
he  was  conscious  of  no  especial  impulse  to  introduce 
a  discord  into  so  noble  a  harmony.  Only  he  felt  him- 
self suddenly  in  personal  contact  with  the  forces  with 
which  his  so  valued  backer  had  told  him  that  nc 

IQO 


THE  AMERICAN 

would  have  to  contend,  and  he  became  sensible  of 
their  intensity.  He  wished  to  make  some  answering 
manifestation,  to  stretch  himself  out  at  his  own 
length,  to  sound  a  note  at  the  uttermost  end  of  his 
scale.  It  must  be  added  that  if  this  impulse  was 
neither  vicious  nor  malicious,  it  was  yet  by  no  means 
unattended  by  the  play  in  him  of  his  occasional  dis- 
position to  ironic  adventure.  He  hated  the  idea  of 
shocking  people,  he  respected  the  liability  to  be 
shocked.  But  there  were  impressions  that  threw  him 
back,  after  all,  on  his  own  measures  of  proportion. 
"Paris,"  he  presently  remarked,  "is  a  very  good 
place  for  people  who  take  a  great  deal  of  stock,  as  we 
say,  in  their  location,  and  want  to  be  very  much 
aware  of  it  all  the  time;  or  it's  a  very  good  place 
if  your  family  has  been  settled  here  for  a  long  time 
and  you've  made  acquaintances  and  got  your  rela- 
tions round  you;  or  if  you've  got  a  big  house  like 
this  and  a  wife  and  children  and  mother  and  sister  — 
everything  right  there.  I  don't  like  that  way  that 
prevails  in  many  of  your  districts  of  people 's  living 
all  in  rooms  door  to  door  with  each  other.  But  I  'm 
not,  as  I  may  put  it,  a  natural,  a  real  inspired  loafer. 
I  'm  a  poor  imitation  and  it  goes  against  the  grain. 
My  business  habits  are  too  deep-seated.  Then  I 
have  n't  any  house  to  call  my  own  or  anything  in 
the  way  of  a  family.  My  sisters  are  five  thousand 
miles  away,  my  mother  died  when  I  was  pretty 
small,  and  I  have  n't  what  a  man  has  when  he 
has  taken  the  regular  way  to  get  it  —  if  I  express 
myself  clearly;  and  I  often  miss  that  pleasantness 
very  much.  So  you  see  I'm  sometimes  rather  conscious 


THE  AMERICAN 

of  a  void.  I'm  not  proficient  in  literature,  as  you 
are,  sir,  and  I  get  tired  of  dining  out  and  going  to 
the  opera.  I  miss  my  business  activity.  You  see  I 
began  to  earn  my  living  when  I  was  almost  a  baby, 
and  until  a  few  months  ago  I  've  never  had  my  hand 
off  the  plough.  I  miss  the  regular  call  on  my  atten- 


tion." 


This  speech  was  followed  by  a  profound  silence 
of  some  moments  on  the  part  of  Newman's  enter- 
tainers. Valentin  stood  looking  at  him  fixedly, 
hands  in  pockets,  and  then  slowly,  with  a  half- 
sidling  motion,  went  out  of  the  room.  The  Marquis 
continued  to  draw  on  his  gloves  and  to  smile  benig- 
nantly.  "You  began  to  earn  your  living  in  the 
cradle?"  said  the  old  Marquise,  who  appeared  to 
wish  to  encourage,  a  little  grimly,  yet  not  wholly 
without  an  effect  of  pleasantry,  her  guest's  auto- 
biographic strain. 

"  Well,  madam,  I  'm  not  absolutely  convinced  I  had 
a  cradle!" 

"You  say  you're  not  proficient  in  literature," 
M.  de  Bellegarde  resumed;  "but  you  must  do  your- 
self the  justice  to  remember  that  your  studies  were 
interrupted  early." 

"That's  very  true;  on  my  tenth  birthday  my 
schooling  stopped  short.  1  thought  that  a  grand 
way  to  keep  it.  Still,  I  have  picked  up  knowledge," 
Newman  smiled. 

"You  have  some  sisters?"  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  enquired. 

"Yes,  two  splendid  sisters.  I  wish  you  knew 
them!" 

IQ2 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  hope  that  for  ces  dames  the  hardships  of  lif* 
commenced  less  early." 

"They  married  very  early  indeed,  if  you  call  that 
a  hardship  —  as  girls  do  in  our  Western  country. 
The  husband  of  one  of  them  is  the  owner  of  the  larg- 
est india-rubber  house  in  the  West." 

"Ah,  you  make  houses  also  of  india-rubber?" 
the  Marquise  asked. 

"You  can  stretch  them  as  your  family  increases," 
said  her  daughter-in-law,  now  enveloped  in  a  soft 
shining  cape.  Newman  indulged  at  this  in  a  burst 
of  hilarity  and  explained  that  the  house  in  which 
his  relatives  lived  was  a  large  wooden  structure, 
but  that  they  manufactured  and  sold  india-rubber 
on  a  colossal  scale.  "My  children  have  some  little 
india-rubber  shoes  which  they  put  on  when  they  go 
to  play  in  the  Tuileries  in  damp  weather,"  the  young 
Marquise  accordingly  pursued.  "I  wonder  if  your 
brother-in-law  made  them." 

"I  guess  he  did,  —  and  if  he  did  you  may  be  verj 
sure  you've  got  a  good  article." 

"Well,  you  mustn't  be  too  much  discouraged," 
said  M.  de  Bellegarde  with  vague  benevolence. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  be.  I've  a  project  —  really 
a  grand  one  —  which  gives  me  plenty  to  think  about, 
and  that's  an  occupation."  And  then  Newmai 
waited,  hesitating  yet  debating  rapidly;  he  wished 
again  to  get  near  his  point,  though  to  do  so  forced 
him  to  depart  still  further  from  the  form  of  not  ask- 
ing favours.  He  had  to  ask  that  of  their  attention. 
"Nevertheless,"  he  continued,  addressing  himself  ro 
old  Madame  de  Bellegarde,  "I'll  tell  you  my  great 

193 


THE  AMERICAN 

idea;  perhaps  you  can  help  me.  I  want  not  only  to 
marry,  but  to  marry  remarkably  well." 

"It's  a  very  good  project,  but  I  never  made  a 
match  in  all  my  life/'  said  his  hostess  with  her  odd 
mincing  plainness. 

Newman  looked  at  her  an  instant  and  then  all 
sincerely,  "  I  should  have  thought  you  a  great  hand," 
he  declared. 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  might  well  have  thought 
him  too  sincere.  She  murmured  something  sharply 
in  French  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  son.  At  this 
moment  the  door  of  the  room  was  thrown  open, 
and  with  a  rapid  step  Valentin  reappeared.  "I've 
a  message  for  you,"  he  said  to  his  sister-in-law. 
"Claire  bids  me  ask  you  not  to  start  for  your  ball. 
If  you  '11  wait  a  minute  she  '11  go  with  you." 

"  Claire  will  go  with  us  ? "  cried  the  young  Mar- 
quise. "En  voila  du  nouveau!" 

"She  has  changed  her  mind;  she  decided  half  an 
hour  ago  and  is  sticking  the  last  diamond  into  her 
hair!"  said  Valentin. 

"What  on  earth  has  taken  possession  of  my  daugh- 
ter?" Madame  de  Bellegarde  asked  with  a  coldness 
of  amazement.  "She  has  not  been  this  age  where 
any  candle  was  lighted.  Does  she  take  such  a  step 
at  half  an  hour's  notice  and  without  consulting 
me?" 

"She  consulted  me,  dear  mother,  five  minutes 
since,"  said  Valentin,  "and  I  told  her  that  such  a 
beautiful  woman  —  she 's  more  beautiful  than  ever, 
you'll  see  —  has  no  right  to  bury  herself  alive." 

"You  should  have  referred  Claire  to  her  mother; 
194 


THE  AMERICAN 

my  brother,"  said  M.  de  Bellegarde  in  French, 
"This  is  not  the  way  — !  " 

"I  refer  her  to  the  whole  company!"  Valentin 
broke  in.  "Here  she  comes!"  —  and  he  went  to  the 
open  door,  met  Madame  de  Cintre  on  the  threshold, 
took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  into  the  room. 
She  was  dressed  in  white,  but  a  cloak  of  dark  blue, 
which  hung  almost  to  her  feet,  was  fastened  across 
her  shoulders  by  a  silver  clasp.  She  had  tossed  it 
back,  however,  and  her  long  white  arms  were  un- 
covered. In  her  dense  fair  hair  there  glittered  a  dozen 
diamonds.  She  looked  serious  and,  Newman  thought, 
rather  pale;  but  she  glanced  round  her  and,  when 
she  saw  him,  smiled  and  put  out  her  hand.  He 
thought  her  at  this  moment  far  and  away  the  hand- 
somest woman  he  had  ever  seen.  He  had  a  chance 
to  look  her  full  in  the  face,  for  she  stood  a  little  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  where  she  seemed  to  con- 
sider what  she  should  do,  without  meeting  his  eyes. 
Then  she  went  up  to  her  mother,  who  sat  in  the  deep 
chair  by  the  fire  with  an  air  of  immeasurable  detach- 
ment. Her  back  turned  to  the  others,  Madame  de 
Cintre  held  her  cloak  apart  to  show  her  dress. 

"What  do  you  think  of  me  ?" 

"I  think  you  seem  to  have  lost  your  head.  It  was 
but  three  days  ago,  when  I  asked  you  as  a  particular 
favour  to  myself  to  go  to  the  Duchesse  de  Lusig- 
nan's,  that  you  told  me  you  were  going  nowhere  and 
that  one  must  be  consistent.  Is  this  your  consist- 
ency ?  Why  should  you  distinguish  Madame  Robin- 
eau  ?  Who  is  it  you  wish  to  please  to-night  ? " 

"I   wish   to   please    myself,    dear   mother,"   said 

195 


THE  AMERICAN 

Madame  de  Cintre.    And  she  bent  over  and  kissed 
the  old  lady. 

"I  don't  like  violent  surprises,  my  sister,"  said 
Urbain  de  Bellegarde;  "especially  when  one's 'on 
the  point  of  entering  a  drawing-room." 

Newman  at  this  juncture  felt  inspired  to  speak. 
"Oh,  if  you're  going  anywhere  with  this  lady  you 
need  n't  be  afraid  of  being  noticed  yourself ! " 

M.  de  Bellegarde  turned  to  his  sister  with  an  in- 
tense little  glare.  "I  hope  you  appreciate  a  compli- 
ment that's  paid  at  your  brother's  expense.  Venez 
done,  madame."  And  offering  Madame  de  Cintre 
his  arm  he  led  her  rapidly  out  of  the  room.  Valentin 
rendered  the  same  service  to  young  Madame  de 
Bellegarde,  who  had  apparently  been  reflecting  on 
the  fact  that  the  ball-dress  of  her  sister-in-law  was 
much  less  brilliant  than  her  own,  and  yet  had  failed 
to  derive  absolute  comfort  from  the  reflexion.  With 
a  leave-taking  smile  she  sought  the  complement  of 
her  consolation  in  the  eyes  of  the  American  visitor, 
and,  perceiving  in  them  an  almost  unnatural  glitter, 
not  improbably  may  have  flattered  herself  she  had 
found  it. 

Newman,  left  alone  with  his  hostess,  if  she  might 
so  be  called,  stood  before  her  a  few  moments  in 
silence.  "Your  daughter's  very  beautiful,"  he  said 
at  last. 

"  She 's  very  perverse,"  the  old  woman  returned. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  smiled.  "It  makes  me 
hope." 

"Hope  what?" 

"That  she'll  consent  some  day  to  marry  me." 
196 


THE  AMERICAN 

She  slowly  got  up.  "That  really  is  your  'great 
idea'?" 

"Yes.    Will  you  give  it  any  countenance  ?" 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  looked  at  him  hard  and 
shook  her  head.  Then  her  so  peculiarly  little  mouth 
rounded  itself  to  a  "No!"  which  she  seemed  to  blow 
at  him  as  for  a  mortal  chill. 

"Will  you  then  just  let  me  alone  with  my  chance  ?" 

"You  don't  know  what  you  ask.  I  'm  a  very  proud 
and  meddlesome  old  person." 

"Well,  I'm  very  rich,"  he  returned  with  a  world 
of  desperate  intention. 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  floor,  and  he  thought  it 
probable  she  was  weighing  the  reasons  in  favour  of 
resenting  his  so  calculated  directness.  But  at  last 
looking  up,  "How  rich  ?"  she  simply  articulated. 

He  gave  her,  at  this,  the  figure  of  his  income  — 
gave  it  in  a  round  number  which  had  the  magnificent 
sound  that  large  aggregations  of  dollars  put  on  when 
translated  into  francs.  He  added  to  the  enunciation 
of  mere  brute  quantity  certain  financial  particulars 
which  completed  a  sufficiently  striking  presentment 
of  his  resources. 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  had  let  him  enjoy  her 
undisguised  attention.  "You're  very  frank,"  she 
finally  said,  "and  I'll  be  the  same.  I  would  rather, 
on  the  whole,  get  all  the  good  of  you  there  is  —  rather, 
I  mean,  than,  as  you  call  it,  let  you  alone.  I  would 
rather,"  she  coldly  smiled,  "take  you  in  our  waj 
than  in  your  way.  I  think  it  will  be  easier." 

"I'm  thankful  for  any  terms,"  Newman  quite 
radiantly  answered.  "It's  enough  for  me  to  feel 

197 


THE  AMERICAN 

I  'm  taken.  But  it  need  n't  be,  for  you,"  he  at  the 
same  time  rather  grimly  laughed,  "in  too  big  doses 
to  begin  with.  Good-nightl" —  and  he  rapidly 
quitted  her. 


XI 


HE  had  not,  on  his  return  to  Paris,  resumed  the  study 
of  French  conversation  with  M.  Nioche;  he  had  been 
conscious  of  too  many  other  uses  for  his  time.  That 
amiable  man,  however,  came  to  see  him  very  promptly, 
having  ascertained  his  whereabouts  by  some  art  of 
curiosity  too  subtle  to  be  challenged.  He  repeated 
his  visit  more  than  once;  he  seemed  oppressed  by 
an  humiliating  sense  of  having  been  overpaid,  and 
wished  apparently  to  redeem  his  debt  by  the  offer 
of  grammatical  and  statistical  information  in  small 
instalments.  He  exhaled  the  same  decent  melancholy 
as  a  few  months  before;  a  few  months  more  or  less 
of  brushing  could  make  little  difference  in  the  an- 
tique lustre  of  his  coat  and  hat.  But  his  spirit  itself 
was  a  trifle  more  threadbare;  it  had  clearly  received 
some  hard  rubs  during  the  summer.  Newman  asked 
with  interest  about  Mademoiselle  Noemie,  and 
M.  Nioche  at  first,  for  answer,  simply  looked  at  him 
in  lachrymose  silence. 

"Don't  press  me  on  that  subject,  sir.     I  sit  and 
watch  her,  but  I  can  do  nothing." 

"  Do  you  mean  she  gives  you  serious  cause  —  ? " 
"I  don't  know,  sir,  what  I  mean!  I  can't  follow 
her.  I  don't  understand  her.  She  has  something  in 
her  head;  who  can  say  what's  in  the  head  of  a  little 
person  so  independent,  so  dreadful  —  and  so  pleas- 
ing ?  She 's  too  deep  for  her  poor  papa." 

199 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  Does  she  continue  to  go  to  the  Musee  ?  Has  she 
made  any  of  those  copies  for  me  ? "  Newman  con- 
tinued. 

"  She  goes  to  the  Musee,  but  I  see  nothing  of  the 
copies.  She  has  something  on  her  easel;  I  suppose 
it's  one  of  the  pictures  you  ordered.  Such  a  splendid 
commission  ought  to  give  her  fairy  fingers.  But  she 's 
not  in  earnest.  I  can't  say  anything  to  her;  I'm 
afraid  of  her,  if  you  must  know.  One  evening  last 
summer  when  I  took  her  to  walk  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  she  said  to  me  things  that  made  me  turn 
cold." 

"  And  what  things  ? " 

"Excuse  an  unhappy  father  from  telling  you," 
said  M.  Nioche  while  he  unfolded  his  calico  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

Newman  promised  himself  to  pay  Mademoiselle 
Noemie  another  visit  at  the  Louvre.  He  was  curious 
of  the  progress  of  his  copies,  but  it  must  be  added 
that  he  was  still  more  curious  of  the  personal  pro* 
gress  of  the  copyist.  He  went  one  afternoon  to  the 
great  museum,  but  wandered  through  several  of  the 
rooms  without  finding  her;  after  which,  on  his  way 
to  the  long  hall  of  the  Italian  masters,  he  stopped 
face  to  face  with  Valentin  de  Bellegarde.  The  young 
Frenchman  eagerly  greeted  him,  assuring  him  he  was 
a  godsend.  He  himself  was  in  the  worst  of  humours 
and  wanted  some  one  to  contradict.  "In  a  bad  hu- 
mour among  all  these  beautiful  things  ?  I  thought 
you  were  so  fond  of  pictures,  especially  the  grand  old 
black  ones,"  Newman  said.  "There  are  two  or  three 
here  that  ought  to  keep  you  in  spirits." 

200 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Oh,  to-day,"  Valentin  returned,  "I'm  not  in  a 
mood  for  gimcracks,  and  the  more  remarkable  they 
are  the  less  I  like  them.  The  great  staring  eyes  and 
fixed  positions  of  all  these  dolls  and  mannikins  irri- 
tate me.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  at  some  big  dull  party, 
a  roomful  of  people  I  should  n't  wish  to  speak  to. 
What  should  I  care  for  their  beauty  ?  It 's  a  bore 
and,  worse  still,  it's  a  reproach.  I've  a  tas  d' ennuis. 
I  feel  damnably  vicious." 

"  If  this  grand  sight  works  you  up  so  why  do  you 
expose  yourself?"  Newman  asked  with  his  quiet 
play  of  reason. 

"That's  one  of  my  worries.  I  came  to  meet  my 
cousin  —  a  dreadful  English  cousin,  a  member  of 
my  mother's  family  —  who 's  in  Paris  for  a  week 
with  her  husband  and  who  wishes  me  to  point  out 
the  'principal  beauties.'  Imagine  a  woman  who 
wears  a  green  crape  bonnet  in  December  and  has 
straps  sticking  out  of  the  ankles  of  her  interminable 
boots!  My  mother  begged  I  would  do  something  to 
oblige  them.  I've  undertaken  to  play  valet  de  place 
this  afternoon.  They  were  to  have  met  me  here  at 
two  o'clock,  and  I've  been  waiting  for  them  twenty 
minutes.  Why  does  n't  she  arrive  ?  She  has  at  least 
a  pair  of  feet  to  carry  her.  I  don't  know  whether  to 
be  furious  at  their  playing  me  false  or  to  toss  up  my 
hat  for  the  joy  of  escaping  them." 

"I  think  in  your  place  I'd  be  furious,"  said  New- 
man, "because  they  may  arrive  yet,  and  then  youi 
fury  will  still  be  of  use  to  you.  Whereas  if  you  were, 
delighted  and  they  were  afterwards  to  turn  up,  you 
might  n't  know  what  to  do  —  well,  with  your  hat  M 

201 


THE  AMERICAN 

"You  give  me  excellent  advice,  and  I  already  feel 
better.  I'll  be  furious;  I'll  let  them  go  to  the  deuce 
and  I  myself  will  go  with  you  —  unless  by  chance 
you  too  have  a  rendezvous." 

"It's  not  exactly  a  rendezvous,"  Newman  re- 
turned. "But  I've  in  fact  come  to  see  a  person,  not 
a  picture." 

"A  woman,  presumably?" 

"A  young  lady." 

"Well,"  said  Valentin,  "I  hope  for  you,  with  all 
my  heart,  that  she's  not  clothed  in  green  tulle  and 
that  her  feet  are  not  too  much  out  of  focus." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  her  feet,  but  she  has 
very  pretty  hands." 

The  young  man  breathed  all  his  sadness.  "And 
on  that  assurance  I  must  part  with  you  ?" 

"I'm  not  certain  of  finding  my  young  lady,"  said 
Newman,  "  and  I  'm  not  quite  prepared  to  lose  your 
company  on  the  chance.  It  does  n't  strike  me  quite 
as  good  business  to  introduce  you  to  her,  and  yet  I 
should  rather  like  to  have  your  opinion  of  her." 

"  Is  she  formed  to  please  ? " 

"Well,  I  guess  you '11  think  so." 

Valentin  passed  his  arm  into  that  of  his  compan- 
ion. "Conduct  me  to  her  on  the  instant!  I  should 
be  ashamed  to  make  a  pretty  woman  wait  for  my 
verdict  " 

Newman  suffered  himself  to  be  gently  propelled 
in  the  direction  in  which  he  had  been  walking,  but 
his  step  was  not  rapid.  He  was  turning  something 
over  in  his  mind.  The  two  men  passed  into  the  long 
gallery  of  the  Italian  masters,  and  our  friend,  after 

202 


THE  AMERICAN 

having  scanned  for  a  moment  its  brilliant  vista,  turned 
aside  into  the  smaller  apartment  devoted  to  the  same 
school  on  the  left.  It  contained  very  few  persons,  but 
at  the  further  end  of  it  Mademoiselle  Nioche  sat  be- 
fore her  easel.  She  was  not  at  work;  her  palette  and 
brushes  had  been  laid  down  beside  her,  her  hands 
were  folded  in  her  lap  and  she  had  relapsed  into  her 
seat  to  look  intently  at  two  ladies  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hall,  who,  with  their  backs  turned  to  her,  had 
stopped  before  one  of  the  pictures.  These  ladies  were 
apparently  persons  of  high  fashion,  they  were  dressed 
with  great  splendour  and  their  long  silken  trains  and 
furbelows  were  spread  over  the  polished  floor.  It  was 
on  their  dresses  the  young  woman  had  fixed  her  eyes, 
though  what  she  was  thinking  of  I  am  unable  to  say. 
I  hazard  the  hypothesis  of  her  mutely  remarking 
that  to  carry  about  such  a  mass  of  ponderable  pleas- 
ure would  surely  be  one  of  the  highest  uses  of  free- 
dom. Her  reflections,  at  any  rate,  were  disturbed  by 
the  advent  of  her  unannounced  visitors,  whom,  as 
she  rose  and  stood  before  her  easel,  she  greeted  with 
a  precipitation  of  eye  and  lip  that  was  like  the  glad 
clap  of  a  pair  of  hands. 

"  I  came  here  on  purpose  to  see  you  —  settlement 
vous,  expray,  expray,"  Newman  said  in  his  fairest, 
squarest,  distinctest  French.  And  then,  like  a  good 
American,  he  introduced  Valentin  formally:  "Allow 
me  to  make  you  acquainted  with  Comte  Valentin 
de  Bellegarde." 

Valentin  made  a  bow  which  must  have  seemed  to 
her  quite  in  harmony  with  the  impressiveness  of  his 
title,  but  the  graceful  brevity  of  her  response  was 

203 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  negation  of  underbred  surprise.  She  turned  to 
her  generous  patron,  putting  up  her  hands  to  her 
hair  and  smoothing  its  delicately-felt  roughness. 
Then,  rapidly,  she  turned  the  canvas  that  graced  her 
easel  over  on  its  face.  "You've  not  forgotten  me?" 

"I  shall  never  forget  you.  You  may  be  sure  of 
that/' 

"  Oh,"  she  protested,  "  there  are  a  great  many  dif- 
ferent ways  of  remembering  a  person."  And  she 
looked  straight  at  the  Comte  de  Bellegarde,  who  was 
looking  at  her  as  a  gentleman  may  when  a  verdict  is 
expected  of  him. 

"Have  you  painted  me  a  pretty  picture?"  New- 
man went  on.  "Have  you  shown  beaucoup  d* In- 
dustrie?" 

"No,  I've  done  nothing."  And,  taking  up  her 
palette,  she  began  to  mix  her  colours  at  random. 

"  But  your  father  tells  me  your  attendance  has  been 
regular." 

"I've  nowhere  else  to  go!  Where  do  you  suppose, 
cher  monsieur  —  ?  Here,  all  summer,  one  could 
breathe  at  least." 

"Being  here  then,"  said  Newman,  "don't  you 
think  you  might  have  tried  something  ? " 

"I  told  you  before,"  she  sweetly  answered,  "that 
I  have  n't  the  advantage  of  knowing  how  to  paint." 

"But  you've  something  of  interest  on  your  easel 
now,"  Valentin  gaily  objected,  "if  you'd  only  let  me 


see  it." 


She  spread  out  her  two  hands,  with  the  fingers  ex- 
panded, over  the  back  of  the  canvas  —  those  hands 
which  Newman  had  called  pretty  and  which,  in  spite 

204 


THE  AMERICAN 

of  several  little  smudges  of  colour,  Valentin  could 
now  admire.  "  My  painting  is  n't  of  interest." 

"It's  the  only  thing  about  you  that  is  not,  then, 
mademoiselle,"  the  young  man  gallantly  returned. 

She  took  up  her  shamefaced  study  and  silently 
passed  it  to  him.  He  looked  at  it,  and  in  a  moment 
she  said:  "I'm  sure  you're  a  great  judge." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted;  "I  recognise  merit." 

"Only  when  it's  there,  I  hope!  I've  given  up," 
she  bravely  declared,  "trying  to  have  it." 

He  faced  her,  with  a  smile,  over  her  demoralised 
little  daub.  "If  one  has  n't  one  sort  one  can  always 
have  another." 

She  considered  with  downcast  eyes  —  which,  how- 
ever, she  presently  raised.  "We're  talking  of  the 
sort  of  which  you're  a  judge."  Then,  as  to  antici- 
pate too  obvious  a  rejoinder,  she  turned,  for  more 
urgent  good  manners,  to  Newman.  "  Where  have  you 
been  all  these  months  ?  You  took  those  great  jour- 
neys, you  amused  yourself  well  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  our  hero  returned  — "  always  beau- 
coup,  beaucoup!" 

"Ah,  so  much  the  better."  She  spoke  with  charm- 
ing unction  and,  having  taken  back  her  canvas  from 
Valentin,  who  meanwhile  had  looked  at  his  friend 
with  eyes  of  rich  meaning,  began  again  to  dabble  in 
her  colours.  She  was  singularly  pretty,  with  the  look 
of  serious  sympathy  she  threw  into  her  face.  "Tell 
me,"  she  continued,  "a  little  of  all  you've  done." 

"  Oh,  I  went  to  Switzerland  —  to  Geneva  and 
Zermatt  and  Zurich  and  all  those  places,  you  know; 
and  down  to  Venice,  and  all  through  Germany,  and 

205 


THE  AMERICAN 

down  the  Rhine,  and  into  Holland  and  Belgium  — 
the  regular  round.  How  do  you  say  that  in  French 
—  the  regular  round?"  Newman  asked  of  Valentin. 

Mademoiselle  Nioche  fixed  her  eyes  an  instant  on 
their  companion,  and  then  with  all  the  candour  of 
her  appeal:  "I  don't  understand  monsieur  when  he 
says  so  much  at  once.  Would  you  be  so  good  as  to 
translate  ? " 

"  I  'd  rather  talk  to  you  out  of  my  own  head,"  Val- 
entin boldly  declared. 

"No,"  said  Newman  gravely,  still  in  his  formal 
French,  "you  must  n't  talk  to  Mademoiselle  Nioche, 
because  you  say  discouraging  things.  You  ought  to 
tell  her  to  work,  to  persevere." 

"And  we  Parisians,  mademoiselle,"  the  young 
man  exclaimed,  "are  accused  of  paying  hollow  com- 
pliments and  of  being  false  flatterers!" 

"Ah,  I  don't  want  any  compliments,"  the  girl  pro- 
tested, "  I  want  only  the  cruel  truth.  But  if  I  did  n't 
know  it  by  this  time  — !" 

"I  utter  no  truth  more  cruel,"  Valentin  returned, 
"than  that  there  are  probably  many  things  you  can 
do  very  well." 

"Oh, I  can  at  least  do  this!"  And  dipping  a  brush 
into  a  clot  of  red  paint  she  drew  a  great  horizontal 
daub  across  her  unfinished  picture. 

"  What  are  you  making  that  mark  for  ? "  New- 
man asked  with  his  impartial  interest. 

Without  answering,  she  drew  another  long  crim- 
son daub,  in  a  vertical  direction,  down  the  middle  of 
her  canvas  and  so  in  a  moment  completed  the  rough 
mdica  tion  of  a  cross.  "  It 's  the  sign  of  the  cruel  truth." 

206 


THE  AMERICAN 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  Valentin  as 
with  vivid  intelligence.  "You've  spoiled  my  pic- 
ture," said  his  friend. 

"  I  know  that  very  well.  It  was  the  only  thing  to 
do  with  it.  I  had  sat  looking  at  it  all  day  without 
touching  it.  I  had  begun  to  hate  it.  It  seemed  to  me 
something  was  going  to  happen." 

"I  like  it  better  that  way  than  as  it  was  before," 
said  Valentin.  "Now  it's  more  interesting.  It  tells 
a  little  story  now.  Is  it  for  sale,  mademoiselle  ? " 

"Everything  I  have  is  for  sale,"  she  promptly 
replied. 

"How  much  then  is  this  object  ?" 

"Ten  thousand  francs  —  and  very  cheap!" 

"Everything  mademoiselle  may  do  at  present  is 
mine  in  advance,"  Newman  interposed.  "It  makes 
part  of  an  order  I  gave  her  some  months  ago.  So  you 
can't  have  that!" 

"Monsieur  will  lose  nothing  by  it,"  said  made- 
moiselle with  her  charming  eyes  on  Valentin.  And 
she  began  to  put  up  her  utensils. 

"I  shall  have  gained  an  ineffaceable  memory," 
Valentin  smiled.  "You're  going  away?  your  day's 
over?" 

"  My  father  comes  to  fetch  me,"  the  young  lady 
replied. 

She  had  hardly  spoken  when,  through  the  door 
behind  her,  which  opens  on  one  of  the  great  white 
stone  staircases  of  the  Louvre,  M.  Nioche  made  his 
appearance.  He  came  in  with  his  usual  patient  shut- 
fle,  indulging  in  a  low  salute  to  the  gentlemen  who 
had  done  him  the  honour  to  gather  about  his  daugh- 

207 


THE  AMERICAN 

ter.  Newman  shook  his  hand  with  muscular  friend- 
liness and  Valentin  returned  his  greeting  with  high 
consideration.  While  the  old  man  stood  waiting  for 
Noemie  to  make  a  parcel  of  her  implements  he  let  his 
mild  oblique  gaze  play  over  this  new  acquaintance, 
who  was  watching  her  put  on  her  bonnet  and  mantle. 
Valentin  was  at  no  pains  to  disguise  the  benevolence 
of  his  own  interest.  He  looked  at  a  pretty  person  as 
he  would  have  listened  to  a  good  piece  of  music.  In- 
telligent participation  was  in  such  a  case  simple  good 
manners.  M.  Nioche  at  last  took  his  daughter's  paint- 
box in  one  hand  and  the  bedaubed  canvas,  after  giv- 
ing it  a  solemn  puzzled  stare,  in  the  other,  and  led  the 
way  to  the  door.  Noemie  followed  him  after  making 
her  late  interlocutors  the  formal  obeisance  of  the  per- 
fectly-educated female  young. 

"Well,"  said  Newman,  "what  do  you  think  of 
her?" 

"She's  very  remarkable.  Diable,  diable,  diable !" 
his  friend  reflectively  repeated;  "she's  the  perfection 
of  the  type." 

"I'm  afraid  she's  a  sad  little  trifler,"  Newman 
conscientiously  remarked. 

"Not  a  little  one  —  rather  an  immense  one.  She 
has  all  the  material."  And  Valentin  began  to  walk 
slowly  off,  looking  vaguely,  though  with  eyes  now  so 
opened,  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls.  Nothing  could 
have  appealed  to  his  imagination  more  than  the  pos- 
sible futility  of  a  young  lady  so  equipped  for  futility. 
"  She 's  very  interesting,"  he  went  on.  "  Yes,  the  type 
shines  out  in  her." 

"'The  type'  ?    The  type  of  what  ?" 
208 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Well,  of  soaring,  of  almost  sublime  ambition! 
She 's  a  very  bad  little  copyist,  but,  endowed  with  the 
artistic  sense  in  another  line,  I  suspect  her  none  the 
less  of  a  strong  feeling  for  her  great  originals." 

Newman  wondered,  but  presently  followed.  "  Surely 
her  great  originals  will  have  had  more  beauty." 

"Not  always.  She  has  enough  to  look  as  if  she 
had  more,  and  that's  always  plenty.  It's  a  face  and 
figure  in  which  everything  tells.  If  she  were  prettier 
she  would  be  less  intelligent,  and  her  intelligence  is 
half  her  charm." 

"In  what  way  does  her  intelligence  strike  you  as 
so  remarkable?"  asked  Newman,  at  once  puzzled? 
impressed  and  vaguely  scandalised  by  his  friend's 
investment  of  such  a  subject  with  so  much  of  the  dig- 
nity of  demonstration. 

"She  has  taken  the  measure  of  life,  and  she  has 
determined  to  be  something  —  to  succeed  at  any  cost. 
Her  smearing  of  colours  is  of  course  a  mere  trick  to 
gain  time.  She's  waiting  for  her  chance;  she  wishes 
to  launch  herself,  and  to  do  it  right.  Nobody,  my 
dear  man,  can  ever  have  had  such  a  love  of  the  right. 
She  knows  her  Paris.  She's  one  of  fifty  thousand,  so 
far  as  her  impatiences  and  appetites  go,  but  I  'm  sure 
she  has  an  exceptional  number  of  ideas." 

Newman  raised  his  strong  eyebrows.  "Are  you 
also  sure  they're  really  good  ones  ?" 

"Ah,  'good,  good'!"  cried  Valentin:  "you  people 
are  too  wonderful  with  your  goodness.  Good  for 
what,  please  —  ?  They  '11  be  excellent,  I  warrant,  for 
some  things!  They'll  be  much  better  than  the  hope- 
less game  she  has  just  given  up.  They'll  be  good 

209 


THE  AMERICAN 

enough  to  make  her,  I  dare  say,  one  of  the  celebrities 
of  the  future." 

"Lord  o'  mercy,  you  have  sized  her  up!  But  don't 
—  I  must  really  ask  it  of  you  —  let  her  quite  run 
away  with  you,"  Newman  went  on.  "I  shall  owe  it 
to  her  good  old  father  not  to  have  upset  her  balance. 
For  he's  a  real  nice  man." 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,  her  good  old  father!"  Valentin  in- 
corrigibly mocked.  And  then  as  his  companion  looked 
grave:  "He  expects  her  to  assure  his  future." 

"I  thought  he  rather  expected  me!  And  don't  you 
judge  him,  as  a  friend  of  mine,"  Newman  asked, 
"too  cruelly  :  He's  as  poor  as  a  rat,  but  very  high- 
toned." 

"Why,  mon  cher,  I  should  adore  his  tone,  and 
you're  right  to  do  the  same:  it's  much  better  than 
mine,  and  he'll  do  you  more  good  as  a  companion, 
he'll  protect  your  innocence  better,  than  ever  I  shall. 
I  don't  mean,"  Valentin  explained,  "that  he  would  n't 
much  rather  his  daughter  were  a  good  girl,  that  she 
remained  as  'nice'  —  as  worthy,  that  is,  say,  of  your 
particular  use  —  as  he  may  himself  remain.  But  all 
the  same  he  won't,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  — • 
well,  he  won't  do  what  Virginius  did.  He  does  n't 
want  her  to  be  a  failure  —  as  why  should  he  ?  —  and 
if  she  is  n't  a  failure  it 's  plain  she  '11  be  a  success.  On 
the  whole  he  has  confidence." 

"He  has  touching  fears,  sir  —  I  admit  he  has  be- 
trayed them  to  me."  Newman  felt  himself  loyally 
concerned  to  defend  a  character  that  had  struck  him 
as  pleasingly  complete  —  though  completeness  was, 
after  all,  what  Valentin  also  claimed  for  it.  The  dif- 

210 


THE  AMERICAN 

Terence  was  in  their  view  of  that  picturesque  grace, 
and  Newman  would,  to  an  appreciable  degree,  have 
sentimentally  suffered  from  not  being  able  to  keep 
Monsieur  Nioche  before  him  as  he  had  first  seen  him. 
He  was,  to  an  extent  he  never  fully  revealed,  a  col- 
lector of  impressions  as  romantically  concrete,  even 
when  profane,  as  the  blest  images  and  sanctified 
relics  of  one  of  the  systematically  devout,  and  he  at 
bottom  liked  as  little  to  hear  anything  he  had  picked 
up  with  the  hand  of  the  spirit  pronounced  unauthen- 
cic.  "I  don't  quite  remember  what  Virginius  did/* 
he  presently  pursued,  "and  I  don't  say  for  certain 
that  my  old  friend  would  shoot.  He  does  n't  affect 
me  —  no  —  as  a  shooting  man.  But  I  guess  he 
would  n't  want  to  make  very  much  out  of  anything." 

"Then  he'll  be  very  different,"  Valentin  laughed, 
"from  any  of  the  rest  of  his  species!  Why,  my  dear 
fellow,  we  all  here  in  Paris  want  to  make  as  much 
as  possible  out  of  everything.  That 's  how  we  differ, 
I  conceive,  from  the  people  of  your  country:  the  ob- 
jects of  your  exploitation  appear  to  be  fewer,  and 
above  all  of  fewer  kinds.  I  don't  mind  telling  you," 
he  declared  in  the  same  tone,  "that  I  don't  see  the 
end  of  what  I  might  be  capable  of  making  out  of  this." 

"Of  'this'  —  ?" 

"Of  the  relation  of  Monsieur  Nioche  to  his  daugh- 
ter, and  of  the  relation  of  his  daughter  to  —  well,  to 
as  many  other  persons  as  you  like!" 

"  I  shan't  at  all  like  you  to  be  one  of  them,"  New- 
man still  gravely  returned.  "  I  did  n't  ask  you  to  come 
round  with  me  just  to  set  you  after  her." 

The  young  man  appeared  for  an  instant  embar- 

211 


THE  AMERICAN 

rassed.  "Do  you  object  then  to  her  having  engaged 
my  enlightened  curiosity?" 

Newman  considered.  "Well,  no  —  since,  from 
the  moment  I  recognise  she  '11  never  deliver  my  goods 
I  don't  quite  see  where  I  stand  or  how  I  can  improve 
her." 

"Oh,  you  certainly  can't  improve  her!"  Valentin 
gaily  cried. 

Newman  looked  at  him  a  moment.  "I  should  like 
then  to  improve  you.  I  guess  at  any  rate  you  had 
better  leave  her  alone." 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  his  companion  exclaimed,  at  this, 
with  an  accent  that  made  him  pull  up.  "Do  you 
mean,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  warn  me  off?" 

They  had  stopped  a  minute  before,  and  he  stood 
there  staring.  "Hanged  if  I  don't  believe  you  sup- 
pose I'm  afraid  of  you!" 

Valentin  had  given  a  cock  to  his  moustache,  and 
he  stroked  it  an  instant,  meeting  this  exclamation 
with  a  glance  of  some  ambiguity  and  a  smile  just 
slightly  strained.  "Oh,  I  should  n't  put  it  that  way: 
you  don't  even  yet  know  me  enough  to  fear  me! 
Which  gives  you  the  advantage  —  for  you  've  your- 
self attitudes  that,  I  confess,  make  me  tremble.  I 
think  you're  afraid,  at  most,"  he  continued,  "of  my 
bad  example." 

Newman  had  again  —  for  he  had  had  it  before  — 
a  strange  fine  sense  of  something  he  would  have  called, 
in  relation  to  this  brilliant  friend,  the  waste  of  anim- 
adversion. It  was  somehow  one  with  the  accepted 
economic  need  of  keeping  him  pleasantly  in  view. 
Even  to  argue  with  him  was  somehow  to  misuse  a 

212 


THE  AMERICAN 

luxury,  and  to  think  of  him  as  perverse  was  some- 
how to  miss  an  occasion.  No  one  had  ever  given  him 
that  impression,  which  he  might  have  compared  to 
the  absolute  pleasure,  for  the  palate,  of  wine  of  the 
highest  savour.  One  didn't  put  anything  "into" 
such  a  vintage  and  there  was  a  way  of  handling  the 
very  bottle.  The  grace  of  him,  of  Valentin,  was  all 
precious,  the  growth  of  him  all  fortunate,  the  quan- 
tity of  him  elsewhere  all  doubtless  limited.  "  I  might 
perhaps  have  been  a  factor  in  that  young  lady's 
moral  future,"  Newman  presently  said  —  "but  I  don't 
come  in  now.  And  evidently,"  he  added  "you've 
no  room  for  me  in  yours." 

The  young  man  gave  a  laugh,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment, arm  in  arm,  they  had  resumed  their  walk.  "  Oh, 
on  the  contrary,"  Valentin  then  replied;  "since  what 
I  want,  precisely,  is  to  keep  it  spacious  and  capacious 
—  at  least  on  the  scale,  if  you  please,  of  my  moral 
past;  which  indeed  seems  to  me,  when  I  look  back 
on  it,  as  boundless  as  the  desert.  It's  a  prospect  that, 
at  all  events,  such  figures  as  you  and  your  wonderful 
friends  help  to  people.  And  I  may  say  about  them" 
he  went  on,  "that  I  should  like  really  —  in  the  inter- 
est of  the  impression  that  I  confess  the  young  lady 
makes  on  me  —  to  propose  to  you  a  fair  agreement." 

On  which,  amusedly  enough,  Newman  debated  as 
they  went.  "That  I  shall  shut  my  eyes  to  what  you 
want  to  do  ?" 

"Well,  yes  —  say  I  may  expect  you'll  shut  them 
to  me  as  soon  as  I  shall  find  you've  opened  them  to 
the  grand  manner  in  which  your  old  gentleman  is  a 
man  of  the  world.  You  '11  be  obliged,  I  'm  convinced, 

213 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  recognise  it,  and  I  only  ask  you  to  let  me  know,  in 
all  honesty,  when  you've  done  so." 

"  So  that  you,  in  all  honesty  —  ? " 

"Well,  call  it  in  all  delicacy!"  Valentin  suggested. 

Newman  continued  to  wonder.  "May  have  a  free 
hand  —  ?" 

"Without  your  being  shocked,"  the  young  man 
gracefully  said. 

But  it  only  made  our  friend  rather  quaintly  groan. 
"I  think  it's  your  delicacies,  all  round,  that  shock 
me  most!" 

"Ah,  don't  say,"  Valentin  pleaded,  "that  I'm  not 
at  the  worst  a  man  of  duty!  See  for  yourself!"  His 
English  cousins  had  come  into  view,  and  he  advanced 
gallantly  to  meet  the  lady  in  the  green  crape  bonnet. 


xn 

COMING  in  toward  evening,  three  days  after  his  in- 
troduction to  the  family  of  Madame  de  Cintre,  New- 
man found  on  his  table  the  card  of  the  Marquis  de 
Bellegarde.  On  the  following  day  he  received  a  note 
informing  him  that  this  gentleman's  mother  requested 
the  pleasure  of  his  company  at  dinner.  He  went  of 
course,  though  he  had  first  to  disengage  himself  from 
appeals  that  struck  him  as  in  comparison  the  babble 
of  vain  things.  He  was  ushered  into  the  room  in  which 
Madame  de  Bellegarde  had  received  him  before,  and 
here  he  found  his  venerable  hostess  surrounded  by 
her  entire  family.  The  room  was  lighted  only  by  the 
crackling  fire,  which  illumined  the  very  small  pink 
shoes  of  a  lady  who,  from  a  low  chair,  stretched 
out  her  toes  to  it.  This  lady  was  the  younger  Ma- 
dame de  Bellegarde,  always  less  effectively  present, 
somehow,  than  perceptibly  posted.  Madame  de  Cin- 
tre, not  posted  at  all,  but  oh  so  present,  was  seated  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  holding  a  little  girl  against 
her  knee,  the  child  of  her  brother  Urbain,  to  whom 
she  was  apparently  relating  a  wonderful  story.  Val- 
entin had  perched  on  a  puff  close  to  his  sister-in-law, 
into  whose  ear  he  was  certainly  distilling  the  finest 
nonsense.  The  Marquis  was  stationed  before  the 
chimney,  his  head  erect  and  his  hands  behind  him  in 
an  attitude  <>f  formal  expectancy. 

215 


THE  AMERICAN 

The  old  Marquise  stood  up  to  give  Newman  her 
greeting,  and  there  was  that  in  the  way  she  did  so 
which  seemed  to  measure  narrowly  the  quantity  of 
importance  such  a  demonstration  might  appear  to 
attach  to  him.  "We're  all  alone,  you  see;  we've 
asked  no  one  else,"  she  said  austerely. 

"I'm  very  glad  you  didn't;  this  is  much  more 
sociable.  I  wish  you  good-evening,  sir"  —  and  New- 
man offered  his  hand  to  the  Marquis. 

M.  de  Bellegarde  was  affable,  yet  in  spite  of  his 
dignity  was  restless.  He  changed  his  place,  fidgeted 
about,  looked  out  of  the  long  windows,  took  up  books 
and  laid  them  down  again.  Young  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  gave  their  guest  her  hand  without  moving  and 
without  looking  at  him. 

uYou  may  think  that's  coldness,"  Valentin  freely 
explained;  "but  it's  not,  it's  the  last  confidence,  and 
you'll  grow  up  to  it.  It  shows  she's  treating  you 
as  an  intimate.  Now  she  detests  me,  and  yet  she's 
always  looking  at  me." 

"No  wonder  I  detest  you  if  I'm  always  looking  at 
you!"  cried  the  lady.  "If  Mr.  Newman  doesn't 
like  my  way  of  shaking  hands  I  '11  do  it  for  him 
again." 

But  this  charming  privilege  was  lost  on  our  hero 
who  was  already  making  his  way  over  to  Madame 
de  Cintre.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  him  as  she  accepted 
from  him  the  customary  form,  but  she  went  on  with 
the  story  she  was  telling  her  little  niece.  She  had  only 
two  or  three  phrases  to  add,  but  they  were  apparently 
of  great  moment.  She  deepened  her  voice,  smiling 
as  she  did  so,  and  the  little  girl  immensely  gazed  at 

216 


THE  AMERICAN 

her.  "But  in  the  end  the  young  prince  married  the 
beautiful  Florabeila,  and  carried  her  off  to  live  with 
him  in  the  Land  of  the  Pink  Sky.  There  she  was  so 
happy  that  she  forgot  all  her  troubles  and  went  out 
to  drive  every  day  of  her  life  in  an  ivory  coach  drawn 
by  five  hundred  white  mice.  Poor  Florabeila,"  she 
mentioned  to  Newman,  "had  suffered  terribly." 

"She  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  six  months,"  said 
little  Blanche. 

"Yes,  but  when  the  six  months  were  over  she  had 
a  plum-cake  as  big  as  that  ottoman,"  Madame  de 
Cintre  insisted.  "That  quite  set  her  up  again." 

"What  a  strong  constitution  and  what  a  chequered 
career!"  said  Newman.  "Are  you  very  fond  of  chil- 
dren 5  He  was  certain  she  must  be,  but  wished  to 
make  her  say  it. 

"I  like  to  talk  with  them;  we  can  talk  with  them 
so  much  more  seriously  than  with  grown  persons. 
That 's  great  nonsense  I  've  been  telling  Blanche,  but 
it  has  much  more  value  than  most  of  what  we  say  in 
society." 

"I  wish  you  would  talk  to  me  then  as  if  I  were 
Blanche's  age,"  Newman  laughed.  "  Were  you  happy 
at  your  ball  the  other  night  ? " 

"Extravagantly!" 

"Now  you're  talking  the  nonsense  that  we  talk  in 
society,"  said  Newman.  "I  don't  believe  that." 

"  It  was  my  own  fault  if  I  was  n't  happy.  The  ball 
was  very  pretty  and  every  one  very  amiable." 

"It  was  on  your  conscience,"  he  presently  risked, 
"that  you  had  annoyed  your  mother  and  youi 
brother." 

217 


THE  AMERICAN 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  silence.  "That's 
possible  —  I  had  undertaken  more  than  I  could  carry 
out.  I've  very  little  courage;  I'm  not  a  heroine." 
She  said  this,  he  could  feel,  to  be  very  true  with  him; 
and  it  touched  him  as  if  she  had  pressed  into  his  hand, 
for  reminder,  some  note  she  had  scrawled  or  some 
ribbon  or  ring  she  had  worn.  Then  changing  her 
tone,  "  I  could  never  have  gone  through  the  sufferings 
of  the  beautiful  Florabella,"  she  added,  "not  even 
for  her  prospective  rewards." 

Dinner  was  announced  and  he  betook  himself  to 
the  side  of  old  Madame  de  Bellegarde.  The  dining- 
room,  at  the  end  of  a  cold  corridor,  was  vast  and  som- 
bre; the  dinner  was  simple  and  delicately  excellent. 
Newman  wondered  if  the  daughter  of  the  house  had 
had  to  do  with  ordering  the  repast,  and,  with  a  fine 
applied  power  of  remote  projection,  hoped  this  might 
have  been.  Once  seated  at  table,  with  the  various 
members  of  so  rigidly  closed  a  circle  round  him,  he 
asked  himself  the  meaning  of  his  position.  Was  the 
old  lady  responding  to  his  advances  ?  Did  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  solitary  guest  augment  his  credit  or 
diminish  it  ?  Were  they  ashamed  to  show  him  to  other 
people  or  did  they  wish  to  give  him  a  sign  of  sudden 
adoption  into  their  last  reserve  of  favour  ?  He  was 
on  his  guard;  he  was  watchful  and  conjectural,  yet 
at  the  same  time  he  was  vaguely  indifferent.  Whether 
they  gave  him  a  long  rope  or  a  short  he  was  there  now, 
and  Madame  de  Cintre  was  opposite  him.  She  had 
a  tall  candlestick  on  each  side  of  her;  she  would  sit 
there  for  the  next  hour,  and  that  was  enough.  The 
dinner  was  extremely  solemn  and  measured;  he  won- 

218 


THE  AMERICAN 

dered  if  this  was  always  the  state  of  things  in  old  fam- 
ilies. Madame  de  Bellegarde  held  her  head  very  high 
and  fixed  her  eyes,  which  looked  peculiarly  sharp  in 
her  little  finely-wrinkled  white  face,  very  intently  on 
the  table-service.  The  Marquis  appeared  to  have 
decided  that  the  fine  arts  offered  a  safe  subject  of 
conversation,  as  not  leading  to  uncouth  personal  re- 
velations. Every  now  and  then,  having  learned  from 
Newman  that  he  had  been  through  the  museums  of 
Europe,  he  uttered  some  polished  aphorism  on  the 
flesh-tints  of  Rubens  or  the  good  taste  of  Sansovino. 
He  struck  his  guest  as  precautionary,  as  apprehen- 
sive; his  manner  seemed  to  indicate  a  fine  nervous 
dread  that  something  disagreeable  might  happen  if 
the  atmosphere  were  not  kept  clear  of  stray  currents 
from  windows  opened  at  hazard.  "What  under  the 
sun  is  he  afraid  of  ? "  Newman  asked  himself.  "  Does 
he  think  I  'm  going  to  offer  to  swap  jack-knives  with 
him  ? "  It  was  useless  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
the  Marquis  was  as  disagreeable  to  him  as  some 
queer,  rare,  possibly  dangerous  biped,  perturbingly 
akin  to  humanity,  in  one  of  the  cages  of  a  "show/* 
He  had  never  been  a  man  of  strong  personal  aver- 
sions; his  nerves  had  not  been  at  the  mercy  of  the 
mystical  qualities  of  his  neighbours.  But  here  was 
a  figure  in  respect  to  which  he  was  irresistibly  in  op- 
position; a  figure  of  forms  and  phrases  and  postures; 
a  figure  of  possible  impertinences  and  treacheries. 
M.  de  Bellegarde  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  stand- 
ing barefooted  on  a  marble  floor;  and  yet  to  gain  his 
desire,  he  felt  perfectly  able  to  stand.  He  asked  him- 
self what  Madame  de  Cintre  thought  of  his  bein& 

219 


THE  AMERICAN 

accepted  —  if  it  was  acceptance  that  was  thus  con- 
veyed to  him.  There  was  no  judging  from  her  face, 
which  expressed  simply  the  desire  to  show  kindness 
in  a  manner  requiring  as  little  explicit  recognition  as 
possible.  Young  Madame  de  Bellegarde  had  always 
the  same  manner;  preoccupied,  distracted,  listening 
to  everything  and  hearing  nothing,  looking  at  her 
dress,  her  rings,  her  finger-nails  and  seeming  inef- 
fably bored,  she  yet  defied  you  to  pronounce  on  her 
ideal  of  social  diversion.  Newman  was  enlightened 
on  this  point  later.  Even  Valentin  failed  quite  to 
seem  master  of  his  wits;  his  vivacity  was  fitful  and 
forced,  but  his  friend  felt  his  firm  eyes  shine  through 
the  lapses  of  the  talk  very  much  as  to  the  effect  of 
one's  being  pinched  by  him  very  hard  in  the  dark. 
Newman  himself,  for  t  he  first  time  in  his  life,  was  not 
himself;  he  measured  his  motions  and  counted  his 
words;  he  had  the  sense  of  sitting  in  a  boat  that  re- 
quired inordinate  trimming  and  that  a  wrong  move 
ment  might  cause  to  overturn. 

After  dinner  M.  de  Bellegarde  proposed  the  smok- 
ing-room and  led  the  way  to  a  small  and  somewhat 
musty  apartment,  the  walls  of  which  were  orna- 
mented with  old  hangings  of  stamped  leather  and 
trophies  of  rusty  arms.  Newman  refused  a  cigar,  bur 
established  himself  on  one  of  the  divans  while  the 
Marquis  puffed  his  own  weed  before  the  fireplace 
and  Valentin  sat  looking  through  the  light  fumes  of 
a  cigarette  from  one  to  the  other.  "  I  can't  keep  quiet 
any  longer,"  this  member  of  the  family  broke  out  ar 
last.  "  I  must  tell  you  the  news  and  congratulate  you. 
My  brother  seems  unable  to  come  to  the  point;  he 

220 


THE  AMERICAN 

revohes  round  his  announcement  even  as  the  priest 
round  the  altar.  You're  accepted  as  a  candidate  for 
the  hand  of  our  sister." 

"Valentin,  be  a  little  proper!"  murmured  the 
Marquis,  the  bridge  of  whose  high  nose  yielded  to 
a  fold  of  fine  irritation. 

"There  has  been  a  family  council,"  his  brother 
nevertheless  continued;  "my  mother  and  he  have 
put  their  heads  together,  and  even  my  testimony 
has  not  been  altogether  excluded.  My  mother  and 
Urbain  sat  at  a  table  covered  with  green  cloth;  my 
sister-in-law  and  I  were  on  a  bench  against  the  wall. 
It  was  like  a  committee  at  the  Corps  Legislatif.  We 
were  called  up  one  after  the  other  to  testify.  We  spoke 
of  you  very  handsomely.  Madame  de  Bellegarde 
said  that  if  she  had  not  been  told  who  you  were  she'd 
have  taken  you  for  a  duke  —  an  American  duke,  the 
Duke  of  California.  I  said  I  could  warrant  you  grate- 
ful for  the  smallest  favours  —  modest,  humble,  un- 
assuming. I  was  sure  you'd  know  your  own  place 
always  and  never  give  us  occasion  to  remind  you  of 
certain  differences.  You  could  n't  help  it,  after  allr 
if  you  had  not  come  in  for  a  dukedom.  There  were 
none  in  your  country;  but  if  there  had  been  it  was 
certain  that  with  your  energy  and  ability  you  'd  have 
got  the  pick  of  the  honours.  At  this  point  I  was 
ordered  to  sit  down,  but  I  think  I  made  an  impression 
in  your  favour." 

M.  de  Bellegarde  looked  at  his  brother  as  New- 
man had  seen  those  unfortunates  looked  at  who  have 
told,  before  waiting  auditors,  stories  of  no  effect. 
Then  he  removed  a  spark  of  cigar-ashes  from  the 


THE  AMERICAN 

sleeve  of  his  coat;  he  fixed  his  eyes  for  a  while  on 
the  cornice  of  the  room,  and  at  last  he  inserted  one 
of  his  white  hands  into  the  breast  of  his  waistcoat. 
"I  must  apologise  to  you  for  Valentin's  inveterate 
bad  taste,  as  well  as  notify  you  that  this  is  probably 
not  the  last  time  that  his  want  of  tact  will  cause  you 
serious  embarrassment." 

"No,  I  confess,  I've  no  tact,"  said  Valentin.  "Is 
your  embarrassment  really  serious,  Newman  ?  Urbain 
will  put  you  right  again;  he'll  know  just  how  you 
feel." 

"My  brother,  I'm  sorry  to  say,"  the  Marquis 
pursued,  "  has  never  had  the  real  sense  of  his  duties 
or  his  opportunities  — of  what  one  must  after  all  call 
his  position.  It  has  been  a  great  pain  to  his  mother, 
who 's  very  fond  of  the  old  traditions.  But  you  must 
remember  that  he  speaks  for  no  one  but  himself." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  him,  sir"  —  Newman  was  all 
good-humour.  "I  know  what  the  Valentines  of  this 
world  amount  to." 

"In  the  good  old  times,"  the  young  man  said, 
"marquises  and  counts  used  to  have  their  appointed 
buffoons  and  jesters  to  crack  jokes  for  them.  Now- 
adays we  see  a  great  strapping  democrat  keeping 
one  of  '  us,'  as  Urbain  would  say,  about  him  to  play 
the  fool.  It 's  a  good  situation,  but  I  certainly  am  very 
degenerate." 

The  Marquis  fixed  his  eyes  for  some  time  on  the 
floor.  "My  mother  has  let  me  know,"  he  presently 
resumed,  "of  the  announcement  that  you  made  her 
other  evening." 

"That  I  want  so  much  to  marry  your  sister  ?" 

222 


THE  AMERICAN 

"That  you  desire  to  approach  the  Comtesse  de 
Cintre  with  that  idea,  and  ask  of  us  therefore  your 
facility  for  so  doing.  The  proposal  gave  my  mother 
—  you  can  perhaps  even  yourself  imagine  —  a  great 
deal  to  think  about.  She  naturally  took  me  into  her 
counsels,  and  the  subject  has  had  my  most  careful 
attention.  There  was  a  great  deal  to  be  considered; 
more  than  you  perhaps  appear  to  conceive.  We 
have  viewed  the  question  on  all  its  faces,  we  have 
weighed  one  thing  against  another.  Our  conclusion 
has  been  that  we  see  no  reason  to  oppose  your  pre- 
tension —  though  of  course  the  matter,  the  question  of 
your  success,  rests  mainly  with  yourself.  My  mother 
has  wished  me  to  inform  you  then  of  our  favourable 
attitude.  She'll  have  the  honour  of  saying  a  few 
words  to  you  on  the  subject  herself.  Meanwhile  you 
have  our  sanction,  as  heads  of  the  family." 

Newman  got  up  and  came  nearer.  "You  person- 
ally will  do  all  you  can  to  back  me  up,  eh  ?" 

"  I  engage  to  you  to  throw  my  weight  into  the  scale 
of  your  success." 

Newman  passed  his  hand  over  his  face  and  pressed 
it  for  a  moment  upon  his  eyes.  This  promise  had 
a  great  sound,  and  yet  the  pleasure  he  took  in  it  was 
embittered  by  his  having  to  stand  there  so  and  re- 
ceive, as  he  might  say,  this  prodigious  person's 
damned  permission.  The  idea  of  having  the  elder 
M.  de  Bellegarde  mixed  up  with  his  wooing  and 
wedding  was  more  and  more  unpleasant  to  him. 
But  he  had  resolved  to  go  through  the  mill,  as  he 
had  imaged  it,  and  he  would  n't  cry  out  at  the  first 
turn  of  the  wheel.  He  was  silent  a  while  and  then 


THE  AMERICAN 

said  with  a  certain  dryness  which  Valentin  told  him 
afterwards  had  a  very  grand  air:  "I 'm  much  obliged 
to  you/' 

"I  take  note  of  the  promise,"  said  Valentin;  "I 
register  the  vow." 

M.  de  Bellegarde  began  to  gaze  at  the  cornice 
again;  he  apparently  had  more  to  say.  "I  must  do 
my  mother  the  justice,  I  must  do  myself  the  justice, 
to  make  the  point  that  our  decision  was  not  easy. 
Such  an  arrangement  was  not  what  we  had  expected. 
The  idea  that  my  sister  should  marry  a  gentleman 
so  intimately  involved  in  —  a  —  business,  was  some- 
thing of  a  novelty." 

"So  I  told  you,  you  know!"  Valentin  recalled  tc 
Newman  with  a  fine  admonitory  finger. 

"The  incongruity  has  not  quite  worn  off,  I  confess," 
the  Marquis  went  on;  "perhaps  it  never  will  entirely. 
But  possibly  that's  not  altogether  to  be  regretted"; 
and  he  went  through  that  odd  dim  form  of  a  smile 
that  affected  his  guest  as  the  scraping  of  a  match  that 
does  n't  light.  "  It  may  be  that  the  time  has  come 
when  we  should  make  some  concession  to  the  spirit 
of  the  day.  There  had  been  no  such  positive  sacrifice 
in  our  house  for  a  great  many  years.  I  made  the  remark 
to  my  mother,  and  she  did  me  the  honour  to  admit 
that  it  was  worthy  of  attention." 

"My  dear  brother,"  interrupted  Valentin,  "is  not 
your  memory  just  here  leading  you  the  least  bit 
astray  ?  Our  mother  is,  I  may  say,  distinguished  by 
her  small  respect  for  abstract  reasoning.  Are  you 
very  sure  she  replied  to  your  striking  proposition  in 
the  gracious  manner  you  describe  ?  You  know  how, 

224 


THE  AMERICAN 

when  it  suits  her,  she  goes  straight  to  the  point  — 
au  pas  de  charge!  Did  n't  she  rather  do  you  the 
honour  to  say:  *A  fiddlestick  for  your  fine  phrases! 
There  are  better  reasons  than  that*  ?" 

"Other  reasons  were  discussed,"  said  the  Marquis 
without  looking  at  Valentin,  but  with  a  slightly  more 
nasal  pitch;  "some  of  them  possibly  were  better. 
We're  highly  conservative,  Mr.  Newman,  but  we 
have  never,  I  trust,  been  stupidly  narrow.  We're 
judging  this  so  interesting  question  on  its  merits  only. 
We've  no  doubt  we  shall  be  fully  justified.  We've 
no  doubt  everything  will  be  comfortable." 

Newman  had  stood  listening  to  these  remarks 
with  his  arms  folded  and  his  eyes  fastened  on  the 
speaker.  *'  Justified  ? "  he  echoed  with  his  way  of 
putting  rather  less  than  more  sense  into  words  he 
repeated.  "Why  shouldn't  we  be?  I  assure  you 
I  've  no  fear  for  myself.  Why  should  n't  we  be  com- 
fortable ?  If  you're  not  it  will  be  your  own  fault. 
I  've  everything  to  make  me  so." 

"My  brother  means  that  with  the  lapse  of  time 
you  may  get  used  to  the  difference."  And  Valentin 
paused  to  light  another  cigarette. 

"  What  difference  ? "  Newman  unimaginatively 
asked. 

"Urbain,"  said  Valentin  very  gravely,  "I'm  afraid 
that  Mr.  Newman  does  n't  quite  realise  the  difference. 
We  ought  to  insist  on  that." 

"My  brother  goes  too  far,"  M.  de  Bellegarde 
observed  to  Newman.  "He  has  no  nice  sense  of 
what  should  n't  be  said.  It's  my  mother's  wish  and 
mine  that  no  comparisons  should  be  made.  Pray 

225 


THE  AMERICAN 

never  make  them  yourself.  We  prefer  to  assume 
that  the  person  accepted  as  the  possible  husband  of 
my  sister  is  one  of  ourselves,  and  that  he  should  feel 
no  explanations  necessary.  With  a  little  tact  on  both 
sides  everything  ought  to  be  easy.  That's  exactly 
what  I  wished  to  say  —  that  we  quite  understand 
what  we've  undertaken  and  that  you  may  depend  on 
our  not  breaking  down." 

Valentin  shook  his  hands  in  the  air  and  then 
buried  his  face  in  them.  "I  don't  quite  steer  clear 
myself,  no  doubt,  but  oh,  my  brother,  if  you  knew 
what  you  are  saying! "  And  he  went  off  into  a  sound 
that  combined  a  long  laugh  with  a  long  wail. 

M.  de  Bellegarde's  face  flushed  a  little,  but  he 
held  his  head  higher,  as  if  to  repudiate  this  concession 
to  vulgar  perturbability.  "  I  'm  sure  you  quite  know 
what  I  mean,"  he  said  to  Newman. 

"Oh  no,  not  quite  —  or  perhaps  not  at  all,"  New- 
man answered.  "  But  you  need  n't  mind  that.  I 
don't  care  whether  I  know  —  or  even,  really,  care, 
I  think,  what  you  say;  for  if  I  did  there  might  be 
things  I  should  n't  like,  should  in  fact,  quite  J/jlike, 
and  that  would  n't  suit  me  at  all,  you  know.  I  want, 
very  originally,  no  doubt,  but  very  obstinately,  to 
marry  your  sister  and  nobody  other  whomsoever  — • 
that's  all;  to  do  it  as  quickly  as  possible  and  to  do 
as  little  else  among  you  besides.  I  don't  care  there- 
fore how  I  do  it  —  as  regards  the  rest  of  you!  And 
that's  all  I  have  to  say." 

"You  had  better,  nevertheless,  receive  the  last 
word  from  my  mother,"  said  the  Marquis,  who 
had  n't  blanched. 

22& 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Very  good;    I'll  go  and  get  it."    And  Newman 
prepared  to  return  to  the  drawing-room. 

M.  de  Bellegarde  made  a  motion  for  him  to  pass 
first,  and  on  his  doing  so  shut  himself  into  the  room 
vrth  Valentin.  Newman  had  been  a  trifle  bewildered 
by  the  free  play  of  his  friend's  wit  and  had  not  needed 
its  aid  to  feel  the  limits  of  the  elder  brother's.  That 
was  what  he  had  heard  of  as  patronage  —  a  great 
historic  and  traditionary  force  that  he  now  per- 
sonally encountered  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 
Did  n't  it  consist  in  calling  your  attention  to  the 
impertinences  it  spared  you  ?  But  he  had  recognised 
all  the  bravery  of  Valentin's  backing  that  underlay 
Vaientin's  comedy,  and  he  was  unwilling  so  fine  a 
comedian  should  pay  a  tax  on  it.  He  paused  a  morrent 
in  the  corridor,  after  he  had  gone  a  few  steps,  expect 
ing  to  hear  the  resonance  of  M.  de  Bellegarde'i> 
displeasure;  but  he  detected  only  a  perfect  stillness. 
The  stillness  itself  seemed  a  trifle  portentous;  he 
reflected,  however,  that  he  had  no  nght  to  stand 
listening  and  made  his  way  back  to  the  salon.  In  his 
absence  several  persons  had  come  in.  They  were 
scattered  about  the  room  in  groups,  two  or  three  of 
them  having  passed  into  a  small  boudoir,  next  to 
the  drawing-room,  which  had  now  been  lighted  and 
opened.  Madame  de  Bellegarde  was  in  her  place 
by  the  fire,  talking  to  an  antique  gentleman  in  a  wig 
and  a  profuse  white  neckcloth  of  the  fasrron  of  1820. 
Madame  de  Cintre  had  bent  a  listening  head  to  the 
historic  confidences  of  an  old  lady  who  was  pre- 
sumably the  wife  of  this  personage,  an  old  lady  in 
a  red  satin  dress  and  an  ermine  cape,  whose  forehead 

227 


THE  AMERICAN 

was  adorned  with  a  topaz  set  in  a  velvet  Dand.  The 
young  Marquise,  when  he  came  in,  left  some  people 
among  whom  she  was  sitting  and  tooK  the  place  she 
had  occupied  before  dmner.  Then  she  gave  a  little 
push  to  the  puff  that  stood  near  her  and  seemed  to 
indicate  by  a  glance  that  she  had  placed  it  in  position 
for  him.  He  went  and  took  possession  of  it;  the 
young  Marquise  amused  and  puzzled  him. 

"I  know  your  secret,"  she  said  in  her  bad  but 
charming  English;  "you  need  make  no  mystery  of  it. 
You  wish  to  marry  my  sister-in  law.  C'est  un  beau 
choix.  A  man  like  you  ought  in  effect  .o  marry  a  very 
tall  and  very  thin  woman.  You  must  know  that  I  've 
spoken  in  your  favour,  I'm  really  on  your  side  and 
in  your  interest.  You  owe  me  a  ramous  taper!" 

"You  've  spoken  well  of  me  to  Madame  de  Cintre  ? " 
Newman  asked 

"Oh  no,  not  that.  You  may  think  it  strange,  but 
my  sister  in-law  and  I  are  not  so  intimate  as  that. 
Taking  my  courage  in  my  hands,  I  put  in  my  word 
for  you  to  my  husband  and  to  my  mother-in-law. 
I  said  I  was  sure  we  could  do  what  we  choose  with 
you." 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  laughed  Newman, 
"but  I  guess  you'll  find  you  can't." 

"I  know  that  very  well;  I  did  n't  believe  a  word  of 
it.  But  I  wanted  you  to  come  into  the  house;  I  thought 
we  should  be  friends." 

"I'm  very  sure  of  it,"  said  Newman. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure.  If  you  like  the  Comtesse  so 
much  perhaps  you  won't  like  me.  We're  as  differ- 
ent —  well,  as  this  fan  and  that  poker.  But  you  and 

228 


THE  AMERICAN 

T  have  something  in  common.  I've  come  '*nto  this 
family  by  marriage;  you  want  to  come  into  it  in  the 
same  way." 

"Oh  no,  I  don't  want  to  come  into  it  at  all,"  he 
interrupted  —  "not  a  wee  mite!  I  only  want  to  take 
Madame  de  Cintre  out  of  it." 

"Well,  to  cast  your  nets  you  have  to  go  into  the 
water.  Our  positions  are  alike;  we  shall  be  able  to 
compare  notes.  What  do  you  think  of  my  husband  ? 
It's  a  strange  question,  is  n't  it  ?  But  I  shall  ask  you 
some  stranger  ones  yet." 

"  Perhaps  a  stranger  one  will  be  easier  to  answer," 
Newman  said.  "You  might  try  me." 

"Oh,  you  get  off  very  well;  the  old  Comte  de  la 
Rochefidele,  yonder,  could  n't  do  it  better.  I  told 
them  that  if  we  only  gave  you  a  chance  you'd  be  one 
of  our  plus  fins  causeurs.  I  know  something  about 
men.  Besides,  you  and  I  belong  to  the  same  camp. 
I  'm  a  ferocious  modern.  I  'm  more  modern  than 
you,  you  know  —  because  I  've  been  through  this 
and  come  out,  very  far  out;  which  you  have  n't. 
Oh,  you  don  t  know  what  this  is.  Vous  allez  lien 
voir.  By  birth  I'm  vielle  roche;  a  good  little  bit  of 
the  history  of  France  is  the  history  of  my  family. 
Oh,  you  never  heard  of  us,  of  course!  Ce  que  cesi 
que  la  gloire  de  race.  We're  much  better  than  the 
Bellegardes  at  any  rate.  But  I  don't  care  a  pin  for 
my  pedigree  —  I  only  want  to  belong  to  my  time. 
So,  being  a  reactionary  —  from  the  reaction  —  I  'm 
sure  I  go  beyond  you.  That's  what  you  look,  you 
know  —  that  you're  not  reactionary  enough.  But 
l  like  clever  people,  wherever  they  come  from,  and 

22Q 


THE  AMERICAN 

I  take  my  amusement  wherever  I  find  it.  i  don't  pout 
at  the  Empire;  here  all  the  world  pouts  at  the  Em- 
pire. Of  course  I  've  to  mind  what  I  say,  but  I  ex- 
pect to  take  my  revenge  with  you."  The  little  lady 
discoursed  for  some  time  longer  in  this  sympathetic 
strain,  with  an  eager  abundance  indicating  that  her 
opportunities  for  revealing  her  esoteric  philosophy 
were  indeed  rare.  She  hoped  Newman  would  never 
be  afraid  of  her,  however  he  might  be  with  the  others, 
for  really  she  went  very  far  indeed.  "  Strong  people  " 
—  les  gens  forts  —  were  in  her  opinion  equal  all  the 
world  over.  Newman  listened  to  her  with  an  atten- 
tion at  once  beguiled  and  irritated.  He  wondered 
what  the  deuce  she  too  was  driving  at,  with  her  hope 
he  would  n't  be  afraid  of  her  and  her  protestations 
of  equality.  In  so  far  as  he  could  understand  her  she 
was  wrong  —  he  did  n't  admit  her  equality;  a  silly 
rattling  woman  was  never  on  a  level  with  a  sensible 
man,  a  man  preoccupied  with  an  ambitious  passion. 
The  young  Marquise  stopped  suddenly  and  looked 
at  him  sharply,  shaking  her  fan.  "I  see  you  don't 
believe  me,  you're  too  much  on  your  guard.  You 
won't  form  an  alliance,  offensive  or  defensive  ? 
You're  very  wrong;  I  could  really  help  you." 

Newman  answered  that  he  was  very  grateful  and 
that  he  would  certainly  ask  for  help;  she  should 
see.  "  But  first  of  all,"  he  said,  "  I  must  help  myself." 
And  he  went  to  join  Madame  de  Cintre. 

"  I  've  been  telling  Madame  de  la  Rochefidele  that 
you're  an' American,''"  she  said  as  he  came  up.  "It 
interests  her  greatly.  Her  favourite  uncle  went  over 
with  the  French  troops  to  help  you  in  your  battles  in 

230 


THE  AMERICAN 

the  last  century,  and  she  has  always,  in  consequence, 
wanted  greatly  to  see  one  of  your  people.  But  she  has 
never  succeeded  till  to-night.  You  're  the  first  —  to 
her  knowledge  —  that  she  has  ever  looked  at." 

Madame  de  la  Rochefidele  had  an  aged  cadaverous 
face,  with  a  falling  of  the  lower  jaw  which  prevented 
her  bringing  her  lips  together  and  reduced  her  con- 
versation to  a  series  of  impressive  but  inarticulate 
gutturals.  She  raised  an  antique  eye-glass,  elaborately 
mounted  in  chased  silver,  and  looked  at  Newman 
from  head  to  foot.  Then  she  said  something  to  which 
he  listenea  deferentially  but  which  conveyed  to  him 
no  idea  whatever 

"Madame  de  ia  Rochefidele  says  she's  convinced 
she  must  have  seen  Americans  without  knowing  it," 
Madame  de  Cintre  explained.  Newman  thought  it 
probable  she  had  seen  a  great  many  things  without 
knowing  if  and  the  old  lady,  again  addressing  her- 
self to  utterance,  declared  —  as  interpreted  by 
Madame  de  Cintre  —  that  she  wished  she  had 
known  it. 

At  this  moment  the  old  gentleman  who  had  been 
talking  to  their  hostess  drew  near,  leading  that  lady 
on  his  arm.  His  wife  pointed  out  Newman  to  him, 
apparently  explaining  his  remarkable  origin.  M.  de  la 
Rochefidele,  whose  old  age  was  as  rosy  and  round 
and  polished  as  an  imitat/on  apple,  spoke  very  neatly 
and  cheerily;  almost  as  prettily,  Newman  thought, 
as  M.  Nioche,  and  much  more  hopefully.  When  he 
had  been  enlightened  he  turned  to  Newman  with  an 
inimitable  elderly  grace.  "Monsieur  is  by  no  means 
the  first  American  I  have  seen.  Almost  the  firs!; 

231 


THE  AMERICAN 
person  I  ever  saw  —  to  notice  him  —  was  an  Ameri« 


can." 


"Ah!"  said  Newman  sympathetically. 

"The  great  Dr.  Franklin.  Of  course  I  was  very 
very  young.  I  believe  I  had  but  just  come  into  the 
world.  He  was  received  very  well  dans  le  noire" 

"Not  better  than  Mr.  Newman,"  said  Madame 
de  Bellegarde.  "  I  beg  he  '11  offer  me  his  arm  into  the 
other  room.  I  could  have  offered  no  higher  privilege 
to  Dr.  Franklin."  Newman,  complying  with  hei 
request,  perceived  that  her  two  sons  had  returned  to 
the  drawing-room.  He  scanned  their  faces  an  instant 
for  traces  of  the  scene  that  had  followed  his  separa- 
tion from  them,  but  if  the  Marquis  had  been  ruffled  he 
stepped  all  the  more  like  some  high-crested  though 
distinctly  domestic  fowl  who  had  always  the  alter- 
native of  the  perch.  Valentin,  on  his  side,  was  kissing 
ladies'  hands  as  much  as  ever  as  if  there  were  nothing 
else  in  the  world  but  these  and  sundry  other  invita- 
tions to  the  moustachioed  lip.  Madame  de  Bellegarde 
gave  a  glance  at  her  elder  son,  and  by  the  time  she 
had  crossed  the  threshold  of  her  boudoir  he  was 
at  her  side.  The  room  was  now  empty  and  offered 
a  sufficient  privacy.  She  disengaged  herself  from 
Newman's  arm  and  rested  her  hand  on  that  of  their 
companion;  and  in  this  position  she  stood  a  moment^ 
bridling,  almost  quivering,  causing  her  ornaments, 
her  earrings  and  brooches  and  buckles,  somehow 
doubly  to  twinkle,  and  pursing,  as  from  simple  force 
of  character,  her  portentous  little  mouth.  I  am  afraid 
the  picture  was  lost  on  Newman,  but  she  was  in 
fact  at  this  moment  a  striking  image  of  the  dignity 

232 


THE  AMERICAN 

which  —  even  in  the  case  of  a  small  time-shrunken 
old  lady  —  may  reside  in  the  habit  of  unquestioned 
.authority  and  the  absoluteness  of  a  social  theory 
favourable  to  the  person  holding  it.  <:  My  son  has 
spoken  to  you  as  I  desired,  and  you'll  understand 
that  you  've  nothing  to  fear  from  our  opposition.  The 
rest  will  lie  with  yourself." 

"  M.  de  Bellegarde  told  me  several  things  I  did  n't 
understand,"  said  Newman,  "but  I  made  out  that. 
You  '11  let  me  stand  on  my  merits.  I  'm  much  obliged.'* 

"I  wish  nevertheless  to  add  a  word  that  my  son 
probably  did  n't  feel  at  liberty  to  say,"  the  Marquise 
pursued.  "  I  must  say  it  for  my  own  peace  of  mind. 
We  Ve  stretched  a  point;  we've  gone  very  far  to  meet 
you." 

"Oh,  your  son  said  it  very  well;  didn't  you, 
Marquis  ? "  Newman  asked. 

"Not  so  well  as  my  mother,"  the  Marquis  declared. 

"Well,"  Newman  returned,  "i  don't  know  what 
I  can  do  but  make  a  note  of  it  and  try  to  profit  by  it." 

"  It 's  proper  I  should  tell  you,"  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  went  on  as  if  to  relieve  an  ins;stent  inward  need, 
"that  I'm  a  very  stiff  old  person  and  that  I  don't 
pretend  not  to  be.  I  may  be  wrong  to  feel  certain 
things  as  I  do,  but  :t  's  too  late  for  me  to  change.  At 
least  I  know  it  —  as  i  know  also  why.  Don't  flatter 
yourself  that  my  daughter  also  isn't  proud.  She's 
proud  in  her  own  way  —  a  somewhat  different  way 
from  mine.  You'll  have  to  make  your  terms  with 
that.  Even  Valentin's  proud,  if  you  touch  the  right 
spot  —  or  the  wrong  one.  Urbain  's  proud  —  that 
you  see  for  yourself..  Sometimes  I  think  he's  a  little 

233 


THE  AMERICAN 

too  proud;  but  I  wouldn't  change  him.  He's  the 
best  of  my  children;  he  cleaves  to  his  old  mother. 
I  've  said,  in  any  case,  enough  to  show  you  that 
we  are  all  very  much  aware  of  ourselves  and  very 
absurd  and  rather  Impossible  together.  It's  well 
you  should  know  the  sort  of  people  you  have  come 
among." 

"Well,"  said  Newman,  "I  can  only  say  that  I  hope 
I  'm  as  little  like  you  then  as  may  be.  But  though 
I  don't  think  I  'm  easy  to  scare,  you  speak  as  if  you 
quite  intended  to  be  as  disagreeable  as  you  know 
how." 

His  hostess  fixed  him  a  moment.  "I  shall  not  en- 
joy it  if  my  daughter  decides  to  marry  you,  and  I  shall 
not  pretend  to  enjoy  it.  If  you  don't  mind  that,  so 
much  the  better.  V 

"  If  you  stick  to  your  own  side  of  the  contract  we 
shall  not  quarrel;  that's  all  I  ask  of  you,"  Newman 
replied.  "  Keep  your  hands  off  —  I  shall  mind  my 
o,vn  business.  I'm  very  much  in  earnest  and  there's 
not  the  slightest  danger  of  my  getting  discouraged 
or  backing  out  You'll  have  me  constantly  before 
your  eyes,  so  that  if  you  don't  like  it  I  'm  sorry  for 
you.  I  '11  do  for  your  daughter,  if  she  !1  accept  me, 
everything  thai:  a  man  can  do  for  a  woman  I  'm 
happy  to  tell  you  that,  as  a  promise  —  a  pledge.  I 
consider  that  on  your  side  you  take  an  equally  de- 
fin'te  engagement.  You'll  not  back  out,  eh  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  *  backing  out,'" 
said  the  Marquise  with  no  small  majesty.  "It  sug- 
gest? a  movement  of  which  I  think  no  Bellegarde  has 
ever  been  guilty." 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Our  word's  our  word,"  Urbain  pronounced. 
"We  recognise  that  we've  given  it." 

"Well  then,"  said  Newman,  "I'm  very  glad  of 
your  pride  and  your  pretensions.  You  '11  have  to  keep 
your  word  to  keep  them  up." 

The  Marquise  was  silent  a  little;  after  which,  sud- 
denly, "I  shall  always  be  polite  to  you,  Mr.  New- 
man," she  declared,  "but  decidedly  I  shall  never 
like  you." 

"Don't  be  too  sure,  madam!"  her  visitor  laughed. 

"I'm  so  sure  that  I  shall  ask  you  to  take  me 
back  to  my  armchair  without  the  least  fear  of  hav- 
ing my  sentiments  modified  by  the  service  you 
render  me."  And  Madame  de  Bellegarde  took  his 
arm  and  returned  to  the  salon  and  to  her  custom- 
ary place. 

M.  de  la  Rochefidele  and  his  wife  were  preparing 
to  take  their  leave,  and  Madame  de  Cintre's  inter- 
view with  the  mumbling  old  lady  was  at  an  end.  She 
stood  looking  about  her,  asking  herself  apparently 
to  whom  she  should  next  speak,  when  Newman  ap- 
proached. "  Your  mother  has  given  me  leave  —  very 
solemnly  —  to  come  here  often.  I  intend  to  come 
often." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you,"  she  answered  simply. 
And  then  in  a  moment:  "You  probably  think  it  very 
strange  that  there  should  be  such  a  solemnity  —  as 
you  say  —  about  your  coming." 

"Well  yes;  I  do,  rather." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  my  brother  Valentin  said 
the  first  day  you  came  to  see  me  ?  —  that  we  're  a 
strange,  strange  family." 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  It  was  n't  the  first  day  I  came,  but  the  second," 
Newman  amended. 

"  Very  true.  Valentin  annoyed  me  at  the  time,  but 
now  I  know  you  better  I  may  tell  you  he  was  right. 
If  you  come  often  you'll  see!"  And  Madame  de 
Cintre  turned  away. 

He  watched  her  a  while  as  she  talked  with  other 
people  and  then  took  his  leave.  It  was  practically 
indeed  to  Valentin  alone  that  he  so  addressed  him- 
self, and  his  friend  followed  him  to  the  top  of  the 
staircase.  "Well,  you've  taken  out  your  passport," 
said  that  young  man.  "I  hope  you  liked  the  process 
and  that  you  admire  our  red  tape." 

"I  like  your  sister  better  than  ever.  But  don't 
worry  your  poor  brother  any  more  for  my  sweet  sake," 
Newman  added.  "There  must  be  something  the 
matter  with  him." 

"There's  a  good  deal!" 

"Well,  I  don't  seem  to  mind  him  —  I  don't  seem 
to  mind  anything!"  Newman  just  a  bit  musingly 
acknowledged.  "  I  was  only  afraid  he  came  down  on 
you  in  the  smoking-room  after  I  went  out." 

"When  my  brother  comes  down  on  me,"  said  Val- 
entin, "he  drops  hard.  I've  a  particular  way  of  re- 
ceiving him.  I  must  say,"  he  continued,  "that  they've 
fallen  into  line  —  for  it  has  been  a  muster  of  all  our 
forefathers  too!  —  sooner  than  I  expected.  I  don't 
understand  it;  they  must  really  have  put  forward 
their  clock!  It's  a  tribute  to  your  solidity." 

"Well,  if  my  solidity  's  all  they  want — !"  New- 
man again  rather  pensively  breathed. 

"You  can  cut  them  a  daily  slice  of  it  and  let  them 
236 


THE  AMERICAN 

have  it  with  their  morning  coffee  ? "  But  he  was 
turning  away  when  Valentin  more  effectually  stopped 
him.  "  I  should  like  to  know  whether,  within  a  few 
days,  you've  seen  your  venerable  friend  M.  Nioche." 

"He  was  yesterday  at  my  rooms." 

"What  had  he  to  tell  you?" 

"Nothing  particular." 

"You  did  n't  see  the  weapon  of  Virginius  sticking 
out  of  his  pocket  ? " 

"What  are  you  driving  at  ?"  Newman  demanded. 
"I  thought  he  seemed  rather  cheerful,  for  him." 

Valentin  broke  into  a  laugh.  "I'm  delighted  to 
hear  of  his  high  spirits  —  they  make  me  so  beauti- 
fully right  and  so  innocently  happy.  For  what  they 
mean,  you  see,  must  be  that  his  charming  child  is 
favourably  placed,  at  last,  for  the  real  exercise  of  her 
talents,  and  that  the  pair  are  relieved,  almost  equally, 
from  the  awkwardness  of  a  false  position.  And  M. 
Nioche  is  rather  cheerful  —  for  him!  Don't  brandish 
your  tomahawk  at  that  rate,"  the  young  man  went 
on;  "I've  not  seen  her  nor  communicated  with  her 
since  that  day  at  the  Louvre.  Andromeda  has  found 
another  Perseus  than  I.  My  information 's  exact;  on 
such  matters  it  always  is.  I  suppose,"  he  wound 
up,  "that  I  may  now  cease  so  elaborately  to  neglect 
her?" 

Newman,  struggling  up  out  of  intenser  inward 
visions,  listened  as  he  could,  and  then,  having  listened, 
remained  with  his  eyes  on  his  friend's  face.  "  It  would 
do  you  good  to  fall  in  love.  You  want  it  badly," 
he  at  last  remarked. 

"Well,  that's  perhaps  exactly  what,  according  tc 
237 


THE  AMERICAN 

my  perpetual   happy   instinct,  I'm    now    trying   to 
do!" 

"Oh  hell!"  said  our  hero  impatiently  as  he  broke 
away  again. 


XIII 

HE  kept  his  promise,  or  his  menace,  of  presenting 
himself  often  in  the  Rue  de  I'Universite,  and  during 
the  next  six  weeks  saw  Madame  de  Cintre  more  times 
than  he  could  have  numbered.  He  flattered  himself 
he  had  not  fallen,  and  had  n't  needed  to  fall,  after 
the  fashion  enjoined  by  him  on  Valentin,  in  love,  but 
his  biographer  may  be  supposed  to  know  better  what, 
as  he  would  have  said,  was  the  matter  with  him.  He 
claimed  certainly  none  of  the  exemptions  and  emol- 
uments of  the  merely  infatuated  state.  That  state, 
he  considered,  was  too  consistent  with  asininity,  and 
he  had  never  had  a  firmer  control  of  his  reason  or 
a  higher  opinion  of  his  judgement.  What  he  was  con- 
scious of,  none  the  less,  was  an  intense  all-consum- 
ing tenderness,  which  had  for  its  object  an  extraor- 
dinarily graceful  and  harmonious,  yet  at  the  same  ( 
time  insidiously  agitating  woman  who  lived  in  a  grand  ' 
grey  house  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine.  His  theory 
of  his  relation  to  her  was  that  he  had  become  con- 
scious of  how  beautifully  she  might,  for  the  question 
of  his  future,  come  to  his  aid;  but  this  left  unex- 
plained the  fact  that  his  confidence  had  somehow 
turned  to  a  strange,  muffled  heartache.  He  was  in 
truth  infinitely  anxious,  and,  when  he  questioned  his 
anxiety,  knew  it  was  not  all  for  himself.  If  she  might 
oome  to  his  aid  he  might  come  to  hers;  and  he  had 
the  imagination  —  more  than  he  had  ever  had  in  his 

239 


THE  AMERICAN 

life  about  anything  —  of  fantastic  straits  or  splendid 
miseries  in  the  midst  of  which,  standing  before  her 
with  wide  arms  out,  he  would  have  seen  her  let  her- 
self, even  if  still  just  desperately  and  blindly,  make 
for  his  close  embrace  as  for  a  refuge. 

He  really  would  n't  have  minded  if  some  harsh 
need  for  mere  money  had  most  driven  her;  the  creak 
of  that  hinge  would  have  been  sweet  to  him  had  it 
meant  the  giving  way  of  the  door  of  separation.  What 
he  wanted  was  to  take  her,  and  that  her  feeling  her- 
self taken  should  come  back  to  him  for  their  com- 
mon relief.  The  full  surrender,  so  long  as  she  did  n't 
make  it,  left  the  full  assurance  an  unrest  and  a  yearn- 
ing —  from  which  all  his  own  refuge  was  in  the  fine 
ingenuity,  the  almost  grim  extravagance,  of  the  pro- 
spective provision  he  was  allowing  to  accumulate. 
She  gave  him  the  sense  of  "suiting"  him  so,  exactly 
as  she  was,  that  his  desire  to  interpose  for  her  and 
close  about  her  had  something  of  the  quality  of  that 
solicitude  with  which  a  fond  mother  might  watch 
from  the  window  even  the  restricted  garden-play  of 
a  child  recovering  from  an  accident.  But  he  was 
above  all  simply  charmed,  and  the  more  for  feeling 
wonderstruck,  as  the  days  went  on,  at  the  proved 
Tightness  both  of  the  instinct  and  of  the  calculation 
that  had  originally  moved  him.  It  was  as  if  there  took 
place  for  him,  each  day,  such  a  revelation  of  the 
possible  number  of  forms  of  the  "personal"  appeal 
as  he  could  otherwise  neverhave  enjoyed,  and  as  made 
him  yet  ask  himself  how,  how,  all  unaided  (save  as 
Mrs.  Tristram,  subtle  woman,  had  aided  him!)  he 
could  have  known.  For  he  had,  amazingly,  known. 

24.0 


THE  AMERICAN 

And  the  impression  must  now  thereby  have  been  for 
him,  he  thought,  very  much  that  of  the  wistful  critic 
or  artist  who  studies  "style"  in  some  exquisite  work 
or  some  quiet  genius,  and  who  sees  it  come  and  come 
and  come,  and  still  never  fail,  like  the  truth  of  a  per- 
fect voice*  or  the  safety  of  a  perfect  temper.  Just 
as  such  a  student  might  say  to  himself,  "How  could 
I  have  got  on  without  this  particular  research?"  so 
Christopher  Newman  could  only  say,  "Fancy  this 
being  to  be  had  and  —  with  my  general  need  —  my 
not  having  it!" 

He  made  no  violent  love  and,  as  he  would  have 
said,  no  obvious  statements;  he  just  attended  regu- 
larly, as  he  would  also  have  said,  in  the  manner  of 
the  "interested  party"  present  at  some  great  liquida- 
tion where  he  must  keep  his  eye  on  what  concerns 
him.  He  never  trespassed  on  ground  she  had  made 
him  regard,  ruefully  enough,  as  forbidden;  but  he 
had  none  the  less  a  sustaining  sense  that  she  knew 
better  from  day  to  day  all  the  good  he  thought  of 
her.  Though  in  general  no  great  talker,  and  almost 
incapable,  on  any  occasion,  of  pitching  his  voice  for 
the  gallery,  he  now  had  his  advances  as  well  as  his 
retreats,  and  felt  that  he  often  succeeded  in  bringing 
her,  as  he  might  again  have  called  it,  into  the  open. 
He  determined  early  not  to  care  if  he  should  bore 
her,  whether  by  speech  or  by  silence  —  since  he  cer- 
tainly meant  she  should  so  suffer,  at  need,  before  he 
had  done;  and  he  seemed  at  least  to  know  that  even 
if  she  actually  suffered  she  liked  him  better,  on  the 
whole,  with  too  few  fears  than  with  too  many.  Her 
visitors,  coming  in  often  while  he  sat  there,  found 

241 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  tall,  lean,  slightly  flushed  and  considerably  silent 
man,  with  a  lounging,  permanent-looking  seat,  who 
laughed  out  sometimes  when  no  one  had  meant  to 
be  drolK  and  yet  remained  grave  in  presence  of  those 
calculated  witticisms  and  those  initiated  gaieties  for 
the  appreciation  of  which  he  apparently  lacked  the 
proper  culture  and  the  right  acquaintances.  It  had 
to  be  confessed  that  the  number  of  the  subjects  upon 
which  he  was  without  ideas  was  only  equalled  by  the 
number  of  the  families  to  which  he  was  not  allied; 
and  it  might  have  been  added  more  gravely  still  that 
as  regards  those  subjects  upon  which  he  was  without 
ideas  he  was  also  quite  without  professions.  He  had 
little  of  the  small  change  of  conversation  and  rarely 
rose  to  reach  down  one  of  those  ready-made  forms 
and  phrases  that  drape,  whether  fresh  or  frayed,  the 
hooks  and  pegs  of  the  general  wardrobe  of  talk  — 
that  repository  in  which  alone  so  many  persons  qual- 
ify for  the  discipline  of  society,  as  supernumerary 
actors  prepare,  amid  a  like  provision,  for  the  ordeal 
of  the  footlights.  He  was  able  on  the  other  hand,  at 
need,  to  make  from  where  he  sat  one  of  the  long  arms 
that  stretch  quite  out  of  the  place  —  to  the  effect,  as 
might  mostly  be  felt,  of  coming  back  with  some  pro- 
position as  odd  as  a  single  shoe. 

Bent,  at  any  rate,  on  possession,  he  had  at  his 
command  treasures  of  attention  and  never  measured 
the  possibilities  of  interest  in  a  topic  by  his  own  power 
of  contribution  to  it:  he  liked  topics  to  grow  at  least 
big  enough  for  him  to  walk  round  them  and  see. 
This  made,  for  his  advantage,  to  his  being  little  ac- 
quainted with  satiety  either  of  sound  or  of  sense;  he 

242 


THE  AMERICAN 

was  not  himself  more  often  bored  than  he  was  often 
alarmed,  and  there  was  no  man  with  whom  it  would 
have  been  a  greater  mistake  than  to  take  his  inter- 
missions always  for  absences  or  his  absences  always 
for  holidays.  What  it  was  that  entertained  or  that 
occupied  him  during  some  of  his  speechless  sessions 
I  shall  not,  however,  undertake  fully  to  say.  The 
Marquise  Urbain  had  once  found  occasion  to  declare 
to  him  that  he  reminded  her,  in  company,  of  a  swim- 
ming-master she  had  once  had  who  would  never 
himself  go  into  the  water  and  who  yet,  at  the  baths, 
en  costume  de  ville,  managed  to  control  and  direct  the 
floundering  scene  without  so  much  as  getting  splashed. 
He  had  so  made  her  angry,  she  professed,  when  he 
turned  her  awkwardness  to  ridicule.  Newman  af- 
fected her  in  like  manner  as  keeping  much  too  dry: 
it  was  urgent  for  her  that  he  should  be  splashed  — 
otherwise  what  was  he  doing  at  the  baths  ?  —  and 
she  even  hoped  to  get  him  into  the  water.  We  know 
in  a  general  way  that  many  things  which  were  old 
stories  to  those  about  him  had  for  him  the  sharp  high 
note,  but  we  should  probably  find  a  complete  list  of 
his  new  impressions  surprising  enough.  He  told  Ma- 
dame de  Cintre  stories,  sometimes  not  brief,  from 
his  own  repertory;  he  was  full  of  reference  to  his  own 
great  country,  over  the  greatness  of  which  it  seldom 
occurred  to  him  that  every  one  might  n't,  on  occasion 
offered,  more  or  less  insatiably  yearn;  and  he  ex- 
plained to  her,  in  so  discoursing,  the  play  of  a  hun- 
dred of  its  institutions  and  the  ingenuity  of  almost 
all  its  arrangements.  Judging  by  the  sequel,  judging 
even  by  the  manner, in  which  she  suffered  his  good 

2*3 


THE  AMERICAN 

faith  to  lay  an  apparent  spell  upon  her  attitude, 
she  was  mildly  —  oh  mildly  and  inscrutably!  —  be- 
guiled; but  one  wouldn't  have  been  sure  before- 
hand of  the  shade  of  her  submission.  As  regards  any 
communication  she  herself  meanwhile  made  him  he 
could  n't  nevertheless  but  guess  that  on  the  whole 
she  "wanted"  to  make  it.  This  was  in  so  far  an 
amendment  to  the  portrait  Mrs.  Tristram  had  drawn 
of  her. 

He  had  been  right  at  first  in  feeling  her  a  little  — 
or  more  than  a  little  —  proudly  shy;  her  shyness,  in 
a  woman  whose  circumstances  and  tranquil  beauty 
afforded  every  facility  for  sublime  self-possession,  was 
only  a  charm  the  more.  For  Newman  it  had  lasted 
some  time  and  had,  even  when  it  went,  left  something 
behind  it  that  for  a  while  performed  the  same  office. 
Was  this  the  uneasy  secret  of  which  Mrs.  Tristram 
had  had  a  glimpse,  and  of  which,  as  of  her  friend's 
reserve,  her  high  breeding  and  her  profundity,  she 
had  given  a  sketch  marked  by  outlines  perhaps  rather 
too  emphatic  ?  He  supposed  so,  yet  to  find  himself, 
as  a  result,  wondering  rather  less  what  Madame  de 
Cintre's  secrets  might  consist  of,  and  convinced 
rather  more  that  secrets  would  be  in  themselves  hate- 
ful and  inconvenient  things,  things  as  depressing  and 
detestable  as  inferior  securities,  for  such  a  woman  to 
have  to  lug,  as  he  inwardly  put  it,  round  with  her. 
She  was  a  creature  for  the  sun  and  the  air,  for  no 
sort  of  hereditary  shade  or  equivocal  gloom;  and  her 
natural  line  was  neither  imposed  reserve  nor  mys- 
terious melancholy,  but  positive  life,  the  life  of  the 
great  world  —  his  great  world,  not  the  grand  monde  as 

244 


THE  AMERICAN 

there  understood  if  he  was  n't  mistaken,  which  seemed 
squeezeable  into  a  couple  of  rooms  of  that  inconven- 
ient and  ill-warmed  house :  all  with  nothing  worse  to 
brood  about,  when  necessary,  than  the  mystery  per- 
haps of  the  happiness  that  would  so  queerly  have 
come  to  her.  To  some  perception  of  his  view  and  his 
judgement,  and  of  the  patience  with  which  he  was 
prepared  to  insist  on  them,  he  fondly  believed  him- 
self to  be  day  by  day  bringing  her  round.  She 
might  n't,  she  could  n't  yet,  no  doubt,  wholly  fall  in 
with  them,  but  she  saw,  he  made  out,  that  he  had 
built  a  bridge  which  would  bear  the  very  greatest 
weight  she  should  throw  on  it,  and  it  was  for  him 
often,  all  charmingly,  as  if  she  were  admiring  from 
this  side  and  that  the  bold  span  of  arch  and  the  high 
line  of  the  parapet  —  as  if  indeed  on  occasion  she 
stood  straight  there  at  the  spring,  just  watching  him 
at  his  extremity  and  with  nothing,  when  the  hour 
should  strike,  to  prevent  her  crossing  with  a  rush. 

He  often  spent  an  evening's  end,  when  she  had  so 
appointed  —  her  motives  and  her  method  and  her 
logic  being  meanwhile  something  of  her  own,  though 
something  thus  beautifully  between  them,  even  if 
never  named,  and  which  he  would  n't  for  the  world 
have  asked  -her  to  name  —  he  often  passed  a  stiff 
succession  of  minutes  at  the  somewhat  chill  fireside 
of  Madame  de  Bellegarde;  contenting  himself  there 
for  the  most  part  with  looking  across  the  room, 
through  narrowed  eyelids,  at  his  mistress,  who 
always  made  a  point,  before  her  family,  of  talking 
to  some  one  else.  Her  mother,  on  that  scene,  would 
sit  by  the  fire  conversing  neatly  and  coldly  with 

245 


THE  AMERICAN 

whomsoever  approached  her  and  yet  detaching  foi 
his  own  especial  benefit  a  glance  that  seemed  to  say: 
"See  how  completely  I'm  interested,  how  agreeably 
I'm  occupied,  how  deeply  I'm  absorbed."  He  often 
wondered  what  those  supposedly  honoured  by  this 
intensity  of  participation  thought  of  her  at  such  mo- 
ments, and  he  sometimes  answered  her  look  by  look- 
ing at  them;  but  no  one,  for  all  the  fine  community 
of  taste,  that  air  in  the  place  as  of  bitter  convictions 
dissolved  in  iced  indifference  and  partaken  of  for 
refreshment  with  small  rare  old  "family"  spoons, 
appeared  to  meet  him  on  any  such  particular  ques- 
tion any  more  intimately  than  on  any  other  —  and  all 
by  direct  default  of  ability;  which  would  have  made 
him  again  ask  himself,  but  for  his  constant  anxious 
ache,  what  he  was  doing  in  so  deadly  a  hole  at  all. 
To  ache  very  hard  at  one  point,  he  found,  was  prac- 
tically to  be  unconscious  of  punctures  at  any  other. 
When  he  at  all  events  made  his  bow  to  the  old  lady 
by  the  fire  he  always  asked  her  with  a  laugh  whether 
she  could  "  stand  him "  another  evening,  and  she 
replied  without  a  laugh,  that,  thank  God,  she  had 
always  been  able  to  do  her  duty.  Talking  of  her  once 
to  Mrs.  Tristram  he  had  remarked  that,  after  all,  it 
was  very  easy  to  get  on  with  her;  it  always  was  easy 
to  get  on  with  out-and-out  rascals. 

"  And  is  it  by  that  elegant  term  that  you  designate 
the  Marquise?" 

"Well,  she's  a  bad,  bold  woman.  She's  a  wicked 
old  sinner." 

"What  then  has  been  her  sin  ?" 

He  thought  a  little.     "  I  should  n't  wonder  if  she 

246 


THE  AMERICAN 

had  done  some  one  to  death  —  all  of  course  from 
a  high  sense  of  duty." 

"How  can  you  be  so  dreadful?"  Mrs.  Tristram 
had  luxuriously  sighed. 

"I'm  not  dreadful.  I  am  speaking  of  her  favour- 
ably." 

"  Pray  what  will  you  say  then  when  you  want  to  be 
severe?" 

"  I  shall  keep  my  severity  for  some  one  else  —  say 
for  that  prize  donkey  of  a  Marquis.  There's  a  man 
I  can't  swallow,  mix  the  drink  as  I  will." 

"And  what  has  he  done  ?" 

"I  can't  quite  make  out,  but  it's  something  very 
nice  of  its  kind  —  I  mean  of  a  kind  elegantly  sneak- 
ing and  fastidiously  base;  not  redeemed  as  in  his 
mother's  case  by  a  fine  little  rage  of  passion  at  some 
part  of  the  business.  If  he  has  never  committed 
murder  he  has  at  least  turned  his  back  and  looked 
the  other  way  while  some  one  else  was  committing  it." 

In  spite  of  this  free  fancy,  which  indeed  struck  his 
friend  as,  for  a  specimen  of  American  humour,  ex- 
ceptionally sardonic,  Newman  did  his  best  to  main- 
tain an  easy  and  friendly  style  of  communication 
with  M.  de  Bellegarde.  So  long  as  he  was  in  personal 
contact  with  people  he  disliked  extremely  to  have 
anything  to  forgive  them,  and  was  capable  of  a  good 
deal  of  unsuspected  imaginative  effort  (for  the  work- 
ing of  the  relation)  to  assume  them  to  be  of  a  human 
substance  and  a  social  elasticity  not  alien  to  his  own. 
He  did  his  best  to  treat  the  Marquis  as  practically 
akin  to  him;  he  believed  honestly,  moreover,  that  he 
could  n't  in  reasor  be  such  a  confounded  fool  as  he 

247 


THE  AMERICAN 

seemed.  Newman's  assumptions,  none  the  less,  were 
never  importunate  $  his  habit  of  sinking  differences 
and  supposing  equalities  was  not  an  aggressive  taste 
nor  an  aesthetic  theory,  but  something  as  natural 
and  organic  as  a  physical  appetite  which  had  never 
been  put  on  a  scant  allowance  and  had  consequently 
never  turned  rabid.  His  air  as  of  not  having  to 
account  for  his  own  place  in  the  social  scale  was 
probably  irritating  to  Urbain,  for  whom  it  could  but 
represent  a  failure  to  conceive  of  other  places  either, 
and  who  thus  saw  himself  reflected  in  the  mind  of  his 
potential  brother-in-law  in  a  crude  and  colourless 
form,  unpleasantly  dissimilar  to  the  impressive  image 
thrown  upon  his  own  intellectual  mirror.  He  never 
forgot  himself  an  instant,  and  replied  with  mechanical 
politeness  to  the  large  bright  vaguenesses  that  he  was 
apparently  justified  in  regarding  as  this  visitor's 
wanton  advances.  Newman,  who  was  constantly 
forgetting  himself  and  indulging  in  an  unlimited 
amount  of  irresponsible  enquiry  and  conjecture,  now 
and  then  found  himself  confronted  by  these  obscure 
abysses  of  criticism.  What  in  the  world  M.  de  Belle- 
garde  was  falling  back  either  from  or  on  he  was  at 
a  loss  to  divine.  M.  de  Bellegarde's  general  orderly 
retreat  may  meanwhile  be  supposed  to  have  been, 
for  himself,  a  compromise  between  a  great  many 
emotions.  So  long  as  he  ambiguously  smiled  —  and 
what  could  make  more  for  order  ?  —  he  was  polite, 
and  it  was  proper  he  should  be  polite.  A  smile  more- 
over committed  him  to  nothing  more  than  politeness; 
it  left  the  degree  of  politeness  agreeably  vague, 
Civil  ambiguity  too  —  and  it  was  perfectly  civil  — 

248 


THE  AMERICAN 

was  neither  dissent,  which  was  too  serious,  nor 
agreement,  which  might  have  brought  on  terrible 
complications.  And  then  it  covered  his  own  personal 
dignity,  which  at  such  a  crisis  he  was  resolved  to 
keep  immaculate:  it  was  quite  enough  that  the  glory 
of  his  house  should  pass  into  eclipse.  Between  him  and 
Newman,  his  whole  manner  seemed  to  declare,  there 
could  be  no  interchange  of  opinion;  he  could  but  hold 
his  breath  so  as  not  to  inhale  the  strong  smell  — • 
since  who  liked  such  very  strong  smells  ?  —  of  a 
democracy  so  gregarious  as  to  be  unable  not  to 
engender  heat  and  perspiration. 

Newman  was  far  from  being  versed  in  "  European  " 
issues,  as  he  liked  to  call  them;  but  he  was  now  on 
the  very  basis  of  aspiring  to  light,  and  it  had  more 
than  once  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  here  both 
arrive  at  it  and  give  this  acquaintance  the  pleasure  of 
his  treating  him  as  an  oracle.  Interrogated,  however, 
as  to  what  he  thought  of  public  affairs,  M.  de  Belle- 
garde  answered  on  each  occasion,  and  quite  indeed 
as  if  thanking  him  for  the  opportunity,  that  he  thought 
as  ill  of  them  as  possible,  that  they  were  going  from 
bad  to  worse,  though  there  was  always  at  least  the 
comfort  of  their  being  too  dreadful  to  touch.  This 
gave  our  friend,  momentarily,  almost  an  indulgence 
for  a  spirit  so  depressed;  he  pitied  the  man  who  had 
to  look  at  him  in  such  a  fashion  when  he  ventured 
to  insist,  particularly  about  their  great  shining 
France,  "Why,  don't  you  see  anything  anywhere?" 
—  and  he  was  brought  by  it  to  an  attempt,  possibly 
Indiscreet,  to  call  attention  to  some  of  the  great 
features  of  the  world's  -progress.  This  had  presently 

249 


THE  AMERICAN 

led  the  Marquis  to  observe,  once  for  all,  that  he  enter- 
tained but  a  single  political  conviction  —  dearer  to 
him,  however,  than  all  the  others,  put  together,  that 
other  people  might  entertain:  he  believed,  namely, 
in  the  divine  right  of  Henry  of  Bourbon,  Fifth  of  his 
name,  to  the  throne  of  France.  This  had  in  truth, 
upon  Newman,  as  many  successive  distinct  effects  as 
the  speaker  could  conceivably  have  desired.  It  made 
him  in  the  first  place  look  at  the  latter  very  hard, 
harder  than  he  had  ever  done  before;  which  had  the 
appearance  somehow  of  affording  M.  de  Bellegarde 
another  of  the  occasions  he  personally  appreciated. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  never  yet  shown  how  he  could 
return  such  a  look;  whereby,  producing  that  weapon 
of  his  armoury,  he  made  the  demonstration  brilliant. 
Then  he  reduced  his  guest,  further,  just  to  staring 
with  a  conscious,  foolish  failure  of  every  resource, 
at  one  of  the  old  portraits  on  the  wall,  out  of  which 
some  dim  light  for  him  might  in  fact  have  presently 
glimmered.  Lastly  it  determined  on  Newman's  part 
a  wise  silence  as  to  matters  he  did  n't  understand. 
He  relapsed,  to  his  own  sense,  into  silence  very 
much  as  he  would  have  laid  down,  on  consulting  it 
by  mistake,  some  flat-looking  back-number  or  some 
superseded  time-table.  It  might  do  for  the  "collec 
tion  "  craze  but  would  n't  do  for  use. 

One  afternoon,  on  his  presenting  himself,  he  was 
requested  by  the  servant  to  be  so  good  as  to  wait, 
a  very  few  minutes,  till  Madame  la  Comtesse  should 
be  at  liberty.  He  moved  about  the  room  a  little,  tak- 
ing up  a  book  here  and  there  as  with  a  vibration  of 
tact  in  his  long  and  strong  fingers;  he  hovered,  with 

250 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  bent  head,  before  flowers  that  he  recognised  as  of 
a  "lot"  he  himself  must  have  sent;  he  raised  his 
eyes  to  old  framed  prints  and  grouped  miniatures 
and  disposed  photographs,  ten  times  as  many  of 
which  she  should  some  day  possess;  and  at  last  he 
heard  the  opening  of  a  door  to  which  his  back  was 
turned.  On  the  threshold  stood  an  old  woman  whom 
he  remembered  to  have  met  more  than  once  in  enter- 
ing and  leaving  the  house.  She  was  tall  and  straight 
and  dressed  in  black,  and  she  wore  a  cap  which,  if 
Newman  had  been  initiated  into  such  mysteries, 
would  have  sufficiently  assured  him  she  was  not  a 
Frenchwoman;  a  cap  of  pure  British  composition. 
She  had  a  pale,  decent,  depressed-looking  face  and 
a  clear,  dull  English  eye.  She  looked  at  Newman  a 
moment,  both  intently  and  timidly,  and  then  she 
dropped  a  short,  straight  English  curtsey.  "The 
Countess  begs  you'll  kindly  wait,  sir.  She  has  just 
come  in;  she'll  soon  have  finished  dressing." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  wait  as  long  as  she  wants,"  said  Newman. 
"  Pray  tell  her  not  to  hurry." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  woman  softly,  and  then 
instead  of  retiring  with  the  message  advanced  into 
the  room.  She  looked  about  her  a  moment  and  pre- 
sently went  to  a  table  and  began  to  dispose  again 
several  small  articles.  Newman  was  struck  with  the 
high  respectability  of  her  appearance;  he  was  afraid 
to  address  her  as  a  servant.  She  busied  herself  with 
ordering  various  trifles,  with  patting  out  cushions 
and  pulling  curtains  straight,  while  our  hero  rather 
attentively  hovered.  He  perceived  at  last,  from  her 
reflexion  in  the  mirror  as  he  was  passing,  that  her 

251 


THE  AMERICAN 

hands  were  idle  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  him.  She 
evidently  wished  to  say  something,  and,  now  aware 
of  it,  he  helped  her  to  begin. 

"  I  guess  you  're  English,  ain't  you  ? " 
"  Oh  dear,  yes,"  she  answered,  quickly  and  softly, 
"I  was  born  in  Wiltshire,  sir." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  Paris  ?" 
"Oh,  I  don't  think  of  Paris,  sir,"  she  said  in  the 
same  tone.  "  It 's  so  long  that  I  've  been  here." 
"Ah,  you  have  been  here  very  long?" 
"More  than  forty  years,  sir.     I  came  over  with 
Lady  Emmeline." 

"You  mean  with  old  Madame  de  Bellegarde  ?" 
"Yes,  sir.    I  came  with  her  when  she  married.    I 
was  my  lady's  own  woman." 

"And  you've  been  with  her  ever  since  ?" 
"I've  been  in  the  house  ever  since.    My  lady  has 
taken  a  younger  person.   You  see  I  'm  very  old.   I  do 
nothing  regular  now.    But  I  keep  about." 

"You  keep  about  remarkably  well,"  said  New- 
man, observing  the  erectness  of  her  figure  and 
a  certain  venerable  pink  in  her  cheek.  "  I  like,"  he 
genially  added,  "to  see  you  about." 

"Very  good  of  you,  sir.  Thank  God  I'm  not  ill. 
I  hope  I  know  my  duty  too  well  to  go  panting  and 
coughing  over  the  house.  But  I  'm  an  old  woman, 
sir,  and  it's  as  an  old  woman  that  I  venture  to  speak 


to  you." 


"Oh,  speak,  if  you  like,  as  you  never  spoke!"  said 
Newman  curiously.    "You  need  n't  be  afraid  of  me." 

"Yes,   sir,  I  think  you're   kind.    I've   seen   you 
before." 

252 


THE  AMERICAN 

"On  the  stairs,  you  mean  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  When  you've  been  coming  to  see  the 
Countess.  I've  taken  the  liberty  of  noticing  that 
you  come  often." 

"Oh  yes;  I  come  very  often,"  he  laughed.  "You 
need  n't  have  been  very  much  emancipated  to  notice 
that." 

"I've  noticed  it  with  pleasure,  sir,"  said  this  in- 
teresting member  of  the  family.  And  she  stood  look* 
ing  at  him  with  a  strange  expression  of  face.  The 
old  instinct  of  deference  and  humility  was  there;  the 
habit  of  decent  self-effacement  and  the  knowledge  of 
her  appointed  crbit.  But  there  mingled  with  it  an 
impulse  born  of  the  occasion  and  of  a  sense,  probably, 
of  this  free  stranger's  unprecedented  affability;  and, 
beyond  this,  a  vague  indifference  to  the  old  proprieties, 
as  if  my  lady's  own  woman  had  at  last  begun  to  re- 
flect that,  since  my  lady  had  taken  another  person, 
she  had  a  slight  reversionary  property  in  herself. 

"  You  take  a  great  interest  in  our  friends  ? "  he 
asked. 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  admired  that  expression 
and  had  never  heard  anything  quite  like  it.  "A  deep 
interest,  sir.  Especially  in  the  Countess." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Newman.  And  he  smil- 
ingly followed  it  up.  "You  can't  take  more  than  I 
do!" 

"  So  I  supposed,  sir.  We  can't  help  noticing  these 
things  and  having  our  ideas;  can  we,  sir?" 

"You  mean  as  an  old  employee  ?" 

"Ah,  there  it  is,  sir.  I'm  afraid  that  when  I  let 
my  thoughts  meddle  with  such  matters  I  rather  step 

253 


THE  AMERICAN 

out  of  my  place.  But  I  'm  so  devoted  to  the  Countess, 
if  she  were  my  own  child  I  could  n't  love  her  more. 
That's  how  I  come  to  be  so  bold,  sir."  Her  boldness 
failed  her  a  moment,  but  she  brought  it  round  with 
a  turn.  "They  say  in  the  house,  sir,  that  you  want 
to  marry  her." 

Newman  eyed  his  interlocutress,  and,  as  if  some- 
thing had  suddenly  begun  to  depend  on  it,  made  up 
his  mind  about  her.  Something  at  least  passed  be- 
tween them  with  his  exchange  of  distinct  truths,  and 
at  the  end  of  a  minute  he  felt  almost  like  a  lost  child 
kindly  taken  by  the  hand.  He  gave  the  hand  a  re- 
sponsive grasp.  He  looked  quite  up  into  the  deep  mild 
face.  "I  want  to  marry  Madame  de  Cintre  more 
than  I  ever  wanted  anything  in  my  life." 

"  And  to  take  her  away  to  America  ? " 

"  I  '11  take  her  wherever  she  wants  to  go." 

"The  further  away  the  better,  sir!"  exclaimed  the 
old  woman  with  sudden  intensity.  But  she  checked 
herself  and,  taking  up  a  paper-weight  in  mosaic, 
began  to  polish  it  with  her  black  apron.  "I  don't 
mean  anything  about  the  house  or  the  family,  sir. 
But  I  think  a  great  change  would  do  the  poor  Countess 
good.  There's  no  very  grand  life  here." 

"Oh,  grand  life  — !"  he  quite  sarcastically  sighed. 
"But  Madame  de  Cintre,"  he  added,  "has  greaf 
courage  in  her  heart." 

"She  has  everything  in  her  heart  that's  good. 
You  '11  not  be  vexed  to  hear  that  she  has  been  more 
her  natural  self  these  two  months  past  than  she  had 
been  for  many  a  day  before." 

Newman  was  delighted  to  gather  this  testimony 
254 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  the  progress  of  his  suit,  but  he  kept  his  expres- 
sion within  bounds.  "Had  she  been  very  long  as  you 
did  n't  want  to  see  her  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  she  had  good  reason  not  to  be  gay. 
The  Count  was  no  natural  husband  for  a  young 
lady  like  that.  And  it  is  n't  as  if,  in  this  house,  there 
were  other  great  pleasures  —  to  make  up,  I  mean, 
for  anything  so  sad.  It's  better,  in  my  humble  opin- 
ion, that  she  should  leave  it  altogether.  So  if  you  '11 
pardon  my  saying  such  a  thing,  I  hope  very  much 
she'll  see  her  blessed  way — !" 

"You  can't  hope  it  as  much  as  I  do!"  Newman 
returned. 

"  But  you  must  n't  lose  courage,  sir,  if  she  does  n't 
make  up  her  mind  at  once.  That's  what  I  wanted  to 
beg  of  you,"  his  friend  proceeded.  "  Don't  give  it 
up,  sir.  You  '11  not  take  it  ill  if  I  say  it's  a  great  risk 
for  any  lady  at  any  time;  all  the  more  when  she  has 
got  rid  of  one  bad  bargain.  But  if  she  can  take 
advantage  of  a  good,  kind,  respectable  gentleman  I 
think  she  had  better  make  up  her  mind.  They  speak 
very  well  of  you,  sir,  in  the  house  —  I  mean  in  my 
part  of  it;  and,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  so,  there's 
everything  in  your  appearance  —  !  You  've  a  very 
different  one  to  the  late  Count;  he  was  n't,  really 
sir,  much  more  than  five  feet  high.  And  they  say 
your  fortune  's  beyond  everything.  There  's  no  harm 
in  that.  So  I  entreat  you  to  be  patient,  sir,  and  to 
bide  your  time.  If  I  don't  say  it  to  you  perhaps  no 
one  will.  Of  course  it's  not  for  me  to  make  any 
promises.  I  can  answer  for  nothing.  But  I  believe  in 
your  chance  because  I  believe  in  your  spirit  I'm 

255 


THE  AMERICAN 

nothing  but  a  weary  old  woman  in  my  quiet  corner, 
but  one  of  us  poor  things  here  may  understand 
another,  and  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  mistake  the 
Countess.  I  received  her  in  my  arms  when  she  came 
into  the  world,  and  her  first  wedding-day  was  the 
saddest  of  my  life.  She  owes  it  to  me  to  show  me 
another  and  a  brighter.  If  you  '11  but  hold  on  fast, 
sir  —  and  you  look  as  if  you  would  —  I  think  we 
may  see  it." 

Newman  had  listened  to  this  slow,  plain,  deliberate 
speech,  the  first  evidently  of  much  waiting  and  wish- 
ing, with  as  hushed  and  grateful  a  pleasure  as  he 
had  ever  had  for  some  grand  passage  at  the  opera. 
"Why,  my  dear  madam,  I  just  love  you  for  your  en- 
couragement. One  can't  have  too  much,  and  I  mean 
to  hold  on  fast  — you  may  bet  your  life  on  that.  And 
if  Madame  de  Cintre  does  see  her  way  you  must  just 
come  and  live  with  her." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him  with  grave  lifeless 
eyes.  "  It  may  seem  a  heartless  thing  to  say,  sir,  when 
one  has  been  forty  years  in  a  house,  but  I  promise 
you  I  should  like  to  leave  this  place." 

"Why,  it's  just  the  time  to  promise,"  said  New- 
man with  ingenuity.  "  After  forty  years  one  wants 
a  big  change.  That's  what  I'm  going  in  for,"  he 
smiled. 

"You're  very  kind  indeed,  sir,"  —  and  this  faith- 
ful servant  dropped  another  curtsey  and  seemed 
disposed  to  retire.  She  moved  slowly,  however,  and 
gave  while  she  lingered  a  dim  joyless  smile.  New- 
man was  disappointed,  and  his  fingers  stole  so  im- 
patiently to  his  waistcoat-pocket  that  his  informant 

256 


THE  AMERICAN 

noticed  the  gesture.  "Ah,  thank  God  I'm  not  a 
mercenary  French  person!  If  I  were  I  would  tell  you 
with  a  brazen  simper,  old  as  I  am,  that  if  you  please, 
monsieur,  my  information  is  worth  something.  Yet 
let  me  tell  you  so  after  all  in  my  own  decent  English 
way.  It  is  worth  something." 

"How  much,  please?" 

"Simply  this,  sir:  your  solemn  promise  not  to  hint 
by  a  single  word  to  the  Countess  that  I've  gone  so 
far." 

"Oh,  I  promise  all  right,"  said  Newman.  "AnJ 
when  I  promise — !" 

"I  do  believe  you  keep,  sir!  That's  all,  sir.  Thank 
you,  sir.  Good-day,  sir."  And  having  once  more 
slid  down  telescope-wise  into  her  scant  petticoats, 
his  visitor  departed.  At  the  same  moment  Madame 
de  Cintre  came  in  by  an  opposite  door.  She  noticed 
the  movement  of  the  other  portiere  and  asked  Newman 
who  had  been  entertaining  him. 

"The  British  female  —  in  her  most  venerable 
form.  An  old  lady  in  a  black  dress  and  a  cap,  who 
bobs  up  and  down  and  expresses  herself  ever  so 
well." 

"An  old  lady  who  bobs  and  expresses  herself? 
Ah,  you  mean  poor  Mrs.  Bread.  I  happen  to  know 
you  Ve  made  a  conquest  of  her." 

"Mrs.  Cake,  she  ought  to  be  called,"  Newman 
declared.  "She's  very  sweet.  She's  a  delicious  old 
woman." 

His  friend  looked  at  him  a  moment.  "What  can 
she  have  said  to  you  ?  She 's  an  excellent  creature, 
but  we  think  her  rather  dismal." 

257 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  suppose,"  he  presently  answered,  "that  I  like 
her  so  much  because  she  has  lived  near  you  so  long. 
Since  your  birth,  she  told  me." 

"Yes  —  such  an  age  as  that  makes!  She's  very 
faithful,"  Madame  de  Cintre  went  on  simply.  "  I  can 
absolutely  trust  her." 

Newman,  however  that  might  be,  had  never  made 
a  reflexion  to  this  lady  on  her  mother  and  her  brother 
Urbain  —  he  had  given  no  hint  of  the  impression 
they  made  on  him.  But,  as  if  she  could  perfectly 
guess  his  feeling  and  subtly  spare  his  nerves,  she  had 
markedly  avoided  any  occasion  for  making  him 
speak  of  them.  She  never  alluded  to  her  mother's 
domestic  decrees;  she  never  quoted  the  opinions  of 
the  Marquis.  They  had  talked,  it  was  true,  of  Valen- 
tin, and  she  had  made  no  secret  of  her  extreme  affec- 
tion for  her  younger  brother.  Newman  listened 
sometimes  with  a  vague,  irrepressible  pang;  if  he 
could  only  have  caught  in  his  own  cup  a  few  drops  of 
that  overflow!  She  once  spoke  to  him  with  candid 
elation  of  something  Valentin  had  done  which  she 
thought  very  much  to  his  honour.  It  was  a  service  he 
had  rendered  to  an  old  friend  of  the  family  —  some- 
thing more  "  serious  "  and  useful  than  he  was  usually 
supposed  capable  of  achieving.  Newman  said  he 
was  glad  to  hear  of  it,  and  then  began  to  talk  of  a 
matter  more  personal  to  himself.  His  companion 
listened,  but  after  a  while  she  said:  "I  don't  like  the 
way  you  speak  of  poor  Valentin."  At  which,  rather 
surprised,  he  protested  he  had  never  spoken  of  him 
save  in  kindness. 

"Well,  it's  just  the  sort  of  kindness,"  she  smiled, 

258 


THE  AMERICAN 

"the  kindness  that  costs  nothing,  the  kindness  you 
show  to  a  child.  It's  as  if  you  rather  looked  down 
on  him.  It's  as  if  you  did  n't  respect  him." 

"Respect  him  ?  Why,  respect's  a  big  feeling.  But 
I  guess  I  do." 

"You  guess  ?    If  you  're  not  sure,  it 's  no  respect." 

"Do  you  respect  him  ?"  Newman  asked.  "If  you 
do  then  I  do." 

"If  one  loves  a  person,  that's  a  question  one's  not 
bound  to  answer,"  said  Madame  de  Cintre. 

"You  should  n't  have  asked  it  of  me  then.  I'm 
very  fond  of  your  brother." 

"He  amuses  you.  But  you  would  n't  like  to  re- 
semble him." 

"  I  should  n't  like  to  resemble  any  one.  It 's  hard 
enough  work  resembling  one's  self." 

"What  do  you  mean,"  she  demanded,  "by  re- 
sembling one's  self?" 

"  Why,  doing  what 's  expected  of  one.  Doing  one's 
duty." 

"  But  that 's  hard  —  or  at  any  rate  it 's  urgent  — 
only  when  one's  very  good." 

"  Well,  a  great  many  people  are  good  enough  — 
so  long  as  they  insist  on  being  so ! "  he  optimistically 
laughed.  "Valentine,  at  all  events,  is  good  enough 
for  me." 

She  was  silent  a  little,  and  then,  with  inconse- 
quence, "Ah,  I  could  wish  him  rather  better!"  she 
declared.  "I  could  wish  he  would  do  something." 

Her  companion  considered :  after  which,  candidly : 
"What  in  the  world  can  Valentine  'do'  ?" 

"Well,  he's  very  clever." 
259 


THE  AMERICAN 

"But  I  guess  it's  a  proof  of  power,"  Newman 
reasoned,  "to  be  so  happy  without  doing  anything." 

"Ah,  but  I  don't  think  Valentin  's  really  so  happy. 
He 's  intelligent,  generous,  brave  —  but  what  is  there 
to  show  for  it  ?  To  me  there 's  something  sad  in  his 
life,  and  sometimes  I  have  a  sort  of  foreboding  about 
him.  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  seems  to  come  to 
me  that  he  may  have  some  great  trouble  —  perhaps 
a  really  unhappy  end." 

"Oh,  leave  him  to  me,"  Newman  cheerfully  re- 
turned. "I  guess  I  can  keep  him  all  right." 

One  evening,  however,  in  spite  of  such  passages  as 
these,  the  conversation  in  Madame  de  Bellegarde's 
own  apartment  had  flagged  most  sensibly.  The 
Marquis  walked  up  and  down  in  silence,  like  a  senti- 
nel at  the  door  of  some  menaced  citadel  of  the  pro- 
prieties; his  mother  sat  staring  at  the  fire;  his  wife 
worked  at  an  enormous  band  of  tapestry.  Usually 
there  were  three  or  four  visitors,  but  on  this  occasion 
a  violent  storm  sufficiently  accounted  for  the  absence 
even  of  the  most  assiduous.  In  the  long  silences  the 
howling  of  the  wind  and  the  beating  of  the  rain  were 
distinctly  audible.  Newman  sat  perfectly  still,  watch- 
ing the  clock,  determined  to  stay  till  the  stroke  of 
eleven  and  not  a  moment  longer.  Madame  de  Cintre 
had  turned  her  back  to  the  circle  and  had  been  stand- 
ing for  some  time  within  the  uplifted  curtain  of  a 
window,  her  forehead  against  the  pane  and  her  eyes 
reaching  out  to  the  deluged  darkness.  Suddenly  she 
turned  round  to  her  sister-in-law.  "For  heaven's 
sake,"  she  said  with  peculiar  eagerness,  "go  to  the 
piano  and  play  something." 

260 


THE  AMERICAN 

The  young  Marquise  held  up  her  tapestry  and 
pointed  to  a  little  white  flower.  "Don't  ask  me  to 
leave  this.  I  'm  in  the  midst  of  a  masterpiece.  My 
little  flower's  going  to  smell  very  sweet;  I'm  putting 
in  the  smell  with  this  gold-coloured  silk.  I  'm  holding 
my  breath;  I  can't  leave  off.  Play  something  your- 
self." 

"  It 's  absurd  for  me  to  play  when  you  're  present/* 
Claire  returned;  yet  the  next  moment  she  had 
plunged,  as  it  were,  into  the  source  of  music,  had 
begun  to  strike  the  keys  with  vehemence.  She 
sounded  them  for  some  time,  to  a  great,  and  almost 
startling  effect;  when  she  stopped  Newman  went 
over  and  asked  her  to  begin  again.  She  shook  her 
head  and,  on  his  insisting,  said:  "I've  not  been 
playing  for  you,  I've  been  playing  for  myself."  She 
went  back  to  the  window  again  and  looked  out,  and 
shortly  afterwards  she  left  the  room. 

When  he  took  leave  Urbain  de  Bellegarde  accom- 
panied him,  as  always,  just  three  steps  down  the 
staircase.  At  the  bottom  stood  a  servant  with  his 
overcoat.  He  had  just  put  it  on  when  he  saw  Madame 
de  Cintre  come  to  him  across  the  vestibule.  "Shall 
you  be  at  home  on  Friday  ?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  before  answering, 
and  the  servant  moved  away  to  the  great  house-door. 
"You  don't  like  my  mother  and  my  brother.  Ah,  but 
not  the  least  little  bit!" 

He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said  ever  so  mildly: 
"Well,  since  you  mention  it — !" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  balustrade  and  prepared 
*o  ascend  the  stairs,  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  first  step 

261 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  shall  be  at  home  on  Friday,"  she  brought  out; 
and  she  passed  up  while  he  watched  her.  But  on  the 
Friday,  as  soon  as  he  came  in,  she  asked  him  to  be  so 
good  as  to  tell  her  why  he  had  such  an  aversion  to  her 
family. 

"Such  an  aversion  ?  Did  I  call  it  that  ?  Don't  think 
I  make  too  much  of  it.  See  how  easily  I  work  it." 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  think  of  them," 
she  simply  said. 

"I  don't  think  of  any  of  them  but  you." 

"That's  because  you  dislike  them  too  much. 
Speak  the  truth;  you  can't  offend  me." 

"  Well,  I  could  live  at  a  pinch  without  the  Marquis," 
Newman  confessed.  "It  comes  to  me  now,  if  you 
mention  it.  But  what 's  the  use  of  our  bringing  it  up  ? 
I  don't  think  of  him." 

"You're  too  good-natured,"  Madame  de  Cintre 
gravely  said.  Then,  as  if  to  avoid  the  appearance  of 
inviting  him  to  speak  ill  of  her  brother,  she  turned 
away,  motioning  him  to  sit  down. 

But  he  remained  there  before  her.  "What's  of 
much  more  importance  is  that  they  can  scarcely 
stand  me." 

"Scarcely,"  she  said  with  the  gentlest,  oddest 
distinctness. 

"And  don't  you  think  they're  wrong?  I  don't 
strike  myself  as  a  man  to  hate." 

"  I  suppose  a  man  who  may  inspire  strong  feelings," 
she  thoughtfully  opined,  "must  take  his  chance  of 
what  they  are.  But  have  my  brother  and  my  mother 
made  you  hate  them?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  sling  my  passions  about  —  I  've  put 
262 


THE  AMERICAN 

all  my  capital  into  one  good  thing,"  he  smiled.  "Yet 
I  may  have  spent  about  ten  cents  on  the  luxury  of 
rage." 

"You've  never  then  let  me  see  you  doing  it." 

"Ah,  I  don't  do  it  here,"  he  still  sturdily  smiled. 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  it  somehow  held  him  a 
minute  in  suspense.  But  "  They  think  they  've  treated 
you  rather  handsomely"  was,  however,  all  she  said 
at  last. 

"Well,  I've  no  doubt  they  could  have  been  much 
worse.  They  must  have  let  me  off  pretty  easily," 
he  went  on;  "for  see  how  little  I  feel  damaged.  And 
I  think  I  show  you  everything.  Honestly." 

She  faced  him  again,  at  this,  as  if  really  to  take  the 
measure,  more  than  she  had  done  yet,  of  what  he 
showed  her.  "You're  very  generous.  It 's  a  painful 
position." 

"For  them,  you  mean.    Not  for  me." 

"For  me,"  said  Madame  de  Cintre. 

"Not  when  their  sins  are  forgiven!"  Newman 
laughed.  "They  don't  think  I'm  as  good  as  them- 
selves. I  do,  you  see.  What  should  I  be  —  well, 
even  for  you  —  if  I  did  n't  ?  But  we  shan't  quarrel 
about  it." 

"  I  can't  even  agree  with  you  without  saying  some-' 
thing  that  has  a  sound  I  dislike.  The  presumption, 
if  I  may  put  it  so,  was  against  you.  That  you  prob- 
ably don't  understand." 

He  sat  down  before  her,  all  carefully  and  consider- 
ately, as  he  might  have  placed  himself  at  the  feet  of 
a  teacher.  "I  don't  think  I  really  understand  it.  But 
when  you  say  it  I  believe  it." 

263 


THE  AMERICAN 

She  gave,  still  with  her  charming  eyes  on  him,  the 
slowest,  gentlest    headshake.     "That's  a  poor  rea- 


son." 


"  No,  it's  a  very  good  one.  I  believe  everything  you 
say,  and  I  know  why  —  if  you  '11  let  me  tell  you. 
You've  a  high  spirit,  a  high  standard;  but  with  you 
it's  all  natural  and  unaffected:  you  don't  seem  to 
have  stuck  your  head  into  a  vise,  as  if  you  were  sitting 
for  the  photograph  of  propriety.  Yet  you  do  also  think 
of  me,  I  guess,  as  a  sort  of  animal  that  has  had  no 
idea  in  life  but  to  make  money  and  drive  sharp  bar- 
gains. Well,  that's  a  fair  description,"  he  pursued, 
"  but  it 's  not  the  whole.  A  man  ought  to  care  for 
something  else  —  I  'm  alive  to  that  and  always 
was,  even  if  I  don't  know  exactly  for  what.  I  cared 
for  money-making,  but  I  never  cared  so  very  terribly 
for  the  money.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do,  and  I 
take  it  you  don't  see  me  always  on  the  loaf.  I  've  been 
veiy  easy  to  others,  and  I  Ve  tried  always  to  know 
where  I  was  myself.  I  Ve  done  most  of  the  things 
that  people  have  asked  me  —  I  don't  mean  scound- 
rels. I  guess  no  one  has  suffered  by  me  very  badly. 
As  regards  your  mother  and  your  brother,"  he  added, 
"there's  only  one  point  on  which  I  feel  that  I  might 
quarrel  with  them.  I  don't  ask  them  to  sing  my 
praises  to  you,  but  I  ask  them  to  let  you  alone.  If 
I  thought  they  talked  against  me  to  you  at  all  badly" 
—  and  he  just  paused  —  "why  I'd  have  to  come  in 
somewhere  on  that.9' 

She  reassured  him.  "They've  let  me  alone,  as  you 
say.  They  have  n't  talked  against  you  to  me  at  all 
badly." 

264. 


THE  AMERICAN 

It  gave  him,  and  for  the  first  time,  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  her  apparently  liking  to  use  and  adopt 
his  words.  "Well  then  I  'm  ready  to  declare  them  only 
too  good  for  this  world!" 

This  brought  something  into  her  face  that  —  as 
it  seemingly  was  n't  relief  —  he  did  n't  quite  under- 
stand, and  she  might  have  spoken  in  a  sense  to  ex- 
plain it  if  the  door  at  the  moment  had  not  been  thrown 
open  and  Urbain  de  Bellegarde  had  not  stepped 
across  the  threshold.  He  appeared  surprised  at  find- 
ing Newman;  but  his  surprise  was  but  a  momentary 
shadow  across  the  surface  of  an  unwonted  cheer.  His 
guest  had  never  seen  him  so  exhilarated;  he  pro- 
duced the  effect  of  an  old  faded  portrait  that  had 
suddenly  undergone  restoration.  He  held  open  the 
door  for  some  one  else  to  enter,  and  was  presently 
followed  by  the  old  Marquise,  supported  on  the  arrf 
of  a  gentleman  whom  Newman  saw  for  the  first  time. 
He  was  already  on  his  feet,  and  Madame  de  Cintre 
rose,  as  she  always  did  before  her  mother.  The  Mar- 
quis, who  had  greeted  him  almost  genially,  stood 
apart  and  slowly  rubbed  his  hands  ;  his  mother  came, 
forward  with  her  companion.  She  gave  Newman  a 
majestic  little  nod  and  then  released  the  other  visitor, 
that  he  might  make  his  bow  to  her  daughter.  "  I  Ve 
brought  you  an  unknown  relative,  Lord  Deepmere, 
Lord  Deepmere  who's  our  cousin,  but  who  has  done 
only  to-day  what  he  ought  to  have  done  long  agot 
come  to  make  our  acquaintance." 

Madame  de  Cintre  dropped  her  soft  but  steady 
jight  on  this  personage,  who  had  advanced  to  take 
her  hand.  "It's  very  extraordinary,"  he  ingenuously 

265 


THE  AMERICAN 

remarked,  "but  this  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  I've 
been  in  Paris  for  more  than  three  or  four  weeks." 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  here  now?"  she 
enquired  with  a  certain  detachment. 

"  Oh,  for  the  last  two  months."  The  young  man  — 
he  was  still  a  young  man  —  showed  no  hesitation. 
His  artless  observations  might  have  constituted  an 
impertinence;  but  a  glance  at  his  face  would  have 
satisfied  you,  as  it  apparently  satisfied  Madame  de 
Cintre,  that  nothing  about  him  could  well  be  explained 
save  in  the  light  of  his  simplicity.  When  their  group 
was  seated  Newman,  who  was  out  of  the  conversation, 
reflected,  observing  him,  that  unless  he  had  the 
benefit  of  that  he  had  n't  the  benefit  of  very  much. 
His  other  advantages  —  beyond  his  three  or  four 
and  thirty  years  —  were  a  scant  stature  and  an  odd 
figure,  a  bald  head,  a  short  nose,  round  clear  blue 
eyes  and  a  frank  and  natural  smile,  which  made  the 
loss  of  a  couple  of  front  teeth  by  some  rude  misad- 
venture constantly  conspicuous.  Perceptibly  em- 
barrassed, by  more  than  one  sign,  he  laughed  as  if 
he  were  bold  and  free,  catching  his  breath  with  a 
loud  startling  sound.  He  admitted  that  Paris  was 
charming,  but  pleaded  that  he  was  a  wild,  bog- 
trotting  Paddy  who  preferred  his  Dublin  even  to  his 
London  and  who  would  never  be  caught  where  they 
had  caught  him  save  for  his  taste  for  light  music.  He 
came  over  for  the  new  Offenbach  things,  since,  though 
they  always  brought  them  out  in  Dublin,  it  was  per- 
haps with  a  whiff  too  much  of  the  brogue.  He  had 
been  nine  times  to  hear  "La  Pomme  de  Paris."  Had 
Madame  de  Cintre  ever  been  to  Dublin  ?  They  must 

266 


THE  AMERICAN 

all  come  over  some  day  and  he'd  show  them  some 
grand  old  Irish  sport.  His  younger  kinswoman, 
leaning  back  with  her  arms  folded  and  her  eyes  ser 
in  a  certain  dimness  of  wonder,  might  have  been 
drifting  away  from  him,  conveniently  and  resignedly, 
on  some  deep  slow  current.  Her  mother's  face,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  lighted  as  if  in  honour  of  the 
hour,  and  Newman  felt  himself  make  out  in  it  a 
queer  prehistoric  prettiness.  The  Marquis  noted 
that  among  light  operas  his  favourite  was  "  La  Gazza 
Ladra."  The  Marquise,  however,  began  a  series  of 
enquiries  about  the  duke  and  the  cardinal,  the  old 
duchess  and  Lady  Barbara,  after  listening  to  which 
and  to  Lord  Deepmere's  somewhat  irreverent  re- 
sponses for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  our  friend  rose  to 
take  his  leave.  The  Marquis  went  with  him  their 
three  usual  steps  into  the  hall. 

"He  is  a  real  Paddy!"  —  and  Newman  nodded  in 
the  direction  of  the  visitor. 

His  companion  took  it  coldly.  "His  mother  was 
the  daughter  of  Lord  Finucane;  he  has  great  Irish 
estates.  Lady  Bridget,  in  the  complete  absence  of 
male  heirs,  either  direct  or  collateral  —  a  most  ex- 
traordinary circumstance  —  came  in  for  no  end  of 
things.  Lord  Deepmere  takes  his  principal  title, 
however,  from  his  English  property,  which  is  im- 
mense. He's  a  charming  young  man." 

Newman  answered  nothing,  but  he  detained  the 
Marquis  as  the  latter  was  beginning  gracefully  to 
recede.  "It's  a  good  time  for  me  to  thank  you  for 
sticking  so  punctiliously  to  our  bargain  —  for  doing 
so  much  to  help  me  with  your  sister." 

267 


THE  AMERICAN 

The  Marquis  stared.  "Really,  I've  done  nothing 
that  I  can  boast  of." 

"Oh,  don't  be  modest,"  Newman  genially  urged. 
"I  can't  flatter  myself  I'm  doing  so  well  —  so  well, 
that  is,  as  I  hope  and  pray  —  simply  by  my  own 
merit.  Please  tell  your  mother  too,  won't  you  ?  how 
thoroughly  I  feel  it."  And,  turning  away  with  a 
sense  of  the  fair  thing  done  now,  after  all,  all  round, 
he  left  M.  de  Bellegarde  looking  after  him  more 
ambiguously  than  he  knew. 


XIV 


THE  next  time  Newman  came  to  the  Rue  de  1'Uni- 
versite  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  Madame  de 
Cintre  alone.  He  arrived  with  a  definite  intention 
and  lost  no  time  in  applying  it,  for  she  wore  even 
to  his  impatience  an  expectant,  waiting  look.  "  I  've 
been  coming  to  see  you  for  six  months  now  and  have 
never  spoken  to  you  a  second  time  of  marriage.  That 
was  what  you  asked  me  —  I  obeyed.  Could  any  man 
have  done  better  ? " 

"You've  acted  with  great  delicacy,"  she  said. 

!"Well,  I'm  going  to  change  now.  I  don't  mean 
I'm  going  to  risk  offending,  but  I'm  going  to  go 
back  to  where  I  began.  I  am  back  there.  I  've  been 
all  round  the  circle.  Or  rather  I  've  never  been  away 
from  there.  I  've  never  ceased  to  want  what  I  wanted 
then.  Only  now  I  'm  more  sure  of  it,  if  possible;  I  'm 
more  sure  of  myself  and  more  sure  of  you.  I  know 
you  better,  though  I  don't  know  anything  I  did  n't  be- 
lieve three  months  ago.  You're  everything,  you're  be- 
yond everything,  I  can  imagine  or  desire.  You  know 
me  now — you  must  know  me.  I  won't  say  you  Ve  seen 
the  best,  but  you've  seen  the  worst.  I  hope  you've 
been  thinking  all  this  while.  You  must  have  seen  I 
was  only  waiting;  you  can't  suppose  I  was  changing. 
What  will  you  say  to  me  now  ?  Say  that  everything 
is  clear  and  reasonable  and  that  I  've  been  very  patient 
and  considerate  and  deserve  my  reward.  And  then 


THE  AMERICAN 

give  me  your  hand.     Madame  de  Cintre,  do  that. 
Do  it." 

"I  knew  you  were  only  waiting,"  she  answered, 
"and  I  was  sure  this  day  would  come.  I've  thought 
about  it  a  great  deal.  At  first  I  was  half  afraid  of  it. 
But  I  'm  not  afraid  of  it  now."  She  paused  a  moment 
*ndthen  added:  "It's  a  relief." 

She  sat  on  a  low  chair  and  Newman  on  an  ottoman 
near  her;  he  leaned  a  little  and  took  her  hand,  which 
for  an  instant  she  let  him  keep  "That  means  that 
I've  not  waited  for  nothing."  She  looked  at  him  a 
moment,  and  he  saw  her  eyes  fill  with  tears.  "With 
me,"  he  went  on,  "you'll  be  as  safe  —  as  safe"  — 
and  even  in  his  ardour  he  hesitated  for  a  comparison 
—  "as  safe,"  he  said  with  a  kind  of  simple  solemnity, 
"as  in  your  father's  arms." 

Still  she  looked  at  him  and  her  tears  flowed;  then 
she  buried  her  face  on  the  cushioned  arm  of  the  sofa 
beside  her  chair  and  broke  into  noiseless  sobs.  "I'm 
weak  —  I  'm  weak,"  it  made  him  fairly  tremble  to 
hear  her  say. 

"All  the  more  reason. why  you  should  give  your- 
self up  to  me,"  he  pleaded.  "Why  are  you  troubled  ? 
There's  nothing  here  that  should  trouble  you.  I 
offer  you  nothing  but  happiness.  Is  that  so  hard  to 
believe?" 

"To  you  everything  seems  so  simple,"  she  said  as 
she  raised  her  head.  "But  things  are  not  so.  I  like 
you  —  oh,  I  like  you.  I  liked  you  six  months  ago, 
and  now  I  'm  sure  of  it,  as  you  say  you  're  sure.  But 
it's  not  easy,  simply  for  that,  to  decide  for  what  you 
ask.  There  are  so  many  things  to  think  about." 

270 


THE  AMERICAN 

"There  ought  to  be  only  one  thing  —  that  we  love 
each  other."  And  as  she  remained  silent  he  quickly 
added:  "Very  good;  if  you  can't  accept  that,  don't 
tell  me." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  think  of  nothing,"  she 
returned  at  last;  "not  to  think  at  all  —  only  to  shut 
both  my  eyes  and  give  myself  up.  But  I  can't.  I  'm 
cold,  I'm  old,  I'm  a  coward.  I  never  supposed  1 
should  ever  marry  again,"  she  continued,  "and  it 
seems  to  me  too  strange  I  should  ever  have  listened 
to  you.  When  I  used  to  think,  as  a  girl,  of  what  I 
should  do  if  I  were  to  marry  freely,  by  my  own  choice, 
I  thought  of  a  very  different  man  from  you." 

"That's  nothing  against  me,"  said  Newman  with 
an  immense  smile.  "Your  taste  was  n't  formed." 

His  smile  lighted  her  own  face.  "  Have  you  formed 
it  ?"  And  then  she  said  in  a  different  tone:  "Where 
do  you  wish  to  live  ? " 

"Anywhere  in  the  wide  world  you  like.  We  can 
easily  settle  that." 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  ask  you,"  she  presently  went 
on  —  "I  care  so  very  little.  I  think  that  if  I  were  to 
marry  you  I  could  live  almost  anywhere.  You've 
some  false  ideas  about  me,  you  think  I  need  a  great 
many  things  —  that  I  must  have  a  brilliant  worldly 
life.  I'm  sure  you're  prepared  to  take  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  to  give  me  such  things.  But  that's  very 
arbitrary;  I've  done  nothing  to  show  that."  She 
paused  again,  looking  at  him,  and  her  mingled  sound 
and  silence  were  so  sweet  to  him  that  he  had  no 
more  wish  to  hurry  her  than  he  would  have  had  to 
hurry  the  slow  flushing  of  the  east  at  dawn.  "  Your 

271 


THE  AMERICAN 

being  so  different,  which  at  first  seemed  a  difficulty, 
a  danger,  began  one  day  to  seem  to  me  a  pleasure,  a 
great  pleasure.  I  was  glad  you  were  different.  And 
yet  if  I  had  said  so  no  one  would  have  understood 
me.  And  I  don't  mean  simply  my  family." 

"They  at  least  would  have  said  I  was  a  queer 
monster,  eh  ? "  he  asked. 

"They  would  have  said  I  could  never  be  happy 
with  you  —  you  were  too  different  ;  and  I  would  have 
said  it  was  just  because  you  were  so  different  that  I 
might  be  happy.  But  they  would  have  given  better 
reasons  than  I.  My  only  reason — !"  And  she  paused 
again. 

But  this  time,  before  his  golden  sunrise,  he  felt 
the  impulse  to  grasp  at  a  rosy  cloud.  "Your  only 
reason  is  that  you  love  me!"  he  almost  groaned  for 
deep  insistence;  and  he  laid  his  two  hands  on  her 
with  a  persuasion  that  she  rose  to  meet.  He  let  her 
feel  as  he  drew  her  close,  bending  his  face  to  her,  the 
fullest  force  of  his  imposition;  and  she  took  it  from 
him  with  a  silent,  fragrant,  flexible  surrender  which — 
since  she  seemed  to  keep  back  nothing  —  affected  him 
as  sufficiently  prolonged  to  pledge  her  to  everything. 

He  came  back  the  next  day  and  in  the  vestibule, 
as  he  entered  the  house,  encountered  his  friend  Mrs. 
Bread.  She  was  wandering  about  in  honourable  idle- 
ness and  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  her  delivered  to  him 
straight  one  of  her  Wiltshire  curtsies;  then  turning 
to  the  servant  who  had  admitted  him  she  said  with 
a  cognate  respectability  to  which  evidently  a  proper 
pronunciation  of  French  had  never  had  anything  to 
add :  "You  may  retire  ;  I  '11  have  the  honour  of  con- 

272 


THE  AMERICAN 

ducting  monsieur."  In  spite  of  this  clean  conscious- 
ness, however,  it  appeared  to  Newman  that  her 
voice  had  a  queer  quaver,  as  if  the  tone  of  uncontested 
authority  were  not  habitual  to  it.  The  man  gave  her 
an  impertinent  stare,  but  he  walked  slowly  away, 
and  she  led  Newman  upstairs.  At  half  its  course  the 
staircase  put  forth  two  arms  with  an  ample  rest 
between.  In  a  niche  of  this  landing  stood  an  indif- 
ferent statue  of  an  eighteenth-century  nymph,  sim- 
pering with  studied  elegance.  Here  Mrs.  Bread  stopped 
and  looked  with  shy  kindness  at  her  companion.  "  I 
know  the  good  news,  sir." 

"You've  a  good  right  to  be  first  to  know  it;  you've 
taken  such  a  friendly  interest."  And  then  as  she 
turned  away  and  began  to  blow  the  dust  off  the  image 
as  if  this  might  but  be  free  pleasantry,  "I  suppose 
you  want  to  congratulate  me,"  Newman  went  on,  "and 
I'm  greatly  obliged."  To  which  he  added:  "You 
gave  me  much  pleasure  the  other  day." 

She  turned  round,  apparently  reassured.  "You're 
not  to  think  I've  been  told  anything  —  I've  only 
guessed.  But  when  I  looked  at  you  as  you  came  in 
I  was  sure  I  had  guessed  right." 

"You're  really  a  grand  judge,"  said  Newman. 
"I'm  sure  that  what  you  don't  see  isn't  worth  seeing." 

"  I  'm  not  a  fool;  sir,  thank  God.  I  've  guessed 
something  else  beside,"  said  Mrs.  Bread. 

"What's  that?" 

"I  needn't  tell  you,  sir;  I  don't  think  you'd 
believe  it.  At  any  rate  it  would  n't  please  you." 

"Oh,  tell  me  nothing  but  what  will  please  me," 
he  laughed.  "That's  the  way  you  began." 

273 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Well,  sir,"  she  went  on,  "I  suppose  you  won't 
he  vexed  to  hear  that  the  sooner  everything's  over 
the  better." 

"The  sooner  we're  married,  you  mean?  The 
better  for  me,  certainly." 

"The  better  for  every  one." 

"The  better  for  you  perhaps.  You  know  you're 
coming  to  live  with  us,"  said  Newman. 

"I'm  extremely  obliged  to  you,  sir,  but  it's  not 
of  my  poor  self  I  was  thinking.  I  only  wanted,  if  I 
might  take  the  liberty,  to  recommend  you  to  lose  no 


time." 


"Who  are  you  afraid  of?" 

Mrs.  Bread  looked  up  the  staircase  and  then 
down,  and  then  looked  at  the  undusted  nymph  as 
if  she  possibly  had  sentient  ears.  "I'm  afraid  of 
every  one." 

"What  an  uncomfortable  state  of  mind!"  said 
Newman.  "Does  *  every  one'  wish  to  prevent  m) 
marriage  ? " 

"I'm  afraid  of  already  having  said  too  much,'' 
Mrs.  Bread  replied.  "I  won't  take  it  back,  but  I 
won't  say  any  more."  And  she  kept  her  course  up  the 
staircase  again  and  led  him  into  her  mistress's  salon 

Newman  indulged  in  a  brief  and  silent  imprecatiop 
when  he  found  this  lady  not  alone.  With  her  sat  hei 
mother,  and  toward  the  middle  of  the  room  stood 
young  Madame  de  Bellegarde  in  bonnet  and  mantle. 
The  old  Marquise,  who  leant  back  in  her  chair  clasp- 
ing the  knob  of  each  arm,  looked  at  him  hard  and 
without  moving.  She  seemed  barely  conscious  of  his 
greeting ;  she  might  have  had  too  much  else  to  think 

274 


THE  AMERICAN 

of.  Newman  said  to  himself  that  her  daughter  had 
been  announcing  their  engagement  and  that  she  found 
the  morsel  hard  to  swallow.  But  Madame  de  Cintre, 
as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  gave  him  also  a  look  by 
which  she  appeared  to  mean  that  he  should  under- 
stand something.  Was  it  a  warning  or  a  request  ? 
Did  she  wish  to  enjoin  speech  or  silence  ?  He  was 
puzzled,  and  young  Madame  de  Bellegarde's  pretty 
grin  gave  him  no  information. 

"I've  not  told  my  mother,"  said  Madame  de 
Cintre  abruptly  and  with  her  eyes  on  him. 

"Told  me  what  ?"  the  Marquise  demanded.  "You 
tell  me  too  little.  You  should  tell  me  everything." 

"That's  what  I  do,"  laughed  Madame  Urbain  with 
all  her  bravery. 

"  Let  me  tell  your  mother,"  said  Newman. 

The  old  woman  stared  at  him  again  and  then 
turned  to  her  daughter.  "You're  going  to  marry 
him  ?"  she  brought  out. 

"Oui,  ma  mere,"  said  Madame  de  Cintre. 

"Your  daughter  has  consented,  to  my  very  great 
happiness,"  Newman  announced. 

"And  when  was  this  arrangement  made?"  asked 
Madame  de  Bellegarde.  "I  seem  to  be  picking  up 
the  news  by  chance!" 

"My  suspense  came  to  an  end  yesterday,"  said 
Newman. 

"  And  how  long  was  mine  to  have  lasted  ? "  the 
Marquise  further  enquired  of  her  daughter.  She 
spoke  without  irritation,  with  cold,  noble  displeasure. 

Madame  de  Cintre  stood  silent  and  with  her  eyes 
on  the  ground  "It's  pver  at  all  events  now." 

275 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Where's  my  son  — where 's  Urbain  ?"  asked  the 
Marquise.  "  Send  for  your  brother  and  let  him  know." 

Young  Madame  de  Bellegarde  laid  her  hand  on 
the  bell-rope.  "  He  was  to  make  some  visits  with  me, 
and  I  was  to  go  and  knock  —  very  softly,  very  softlj 
— at  the  door  of  his  study.  But  he  can  come  to  me!" 
She  pulled  the  bell  and  in  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Bread 
appeared  with  a  face  of  calm  enquiry. 

"  Send  for  your  brother,"  the  old  lady  went  on  to 
Claire. 

But  Newman  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to  speak 
—  and  to  speak  in  a  certain  way.  "  Please  tell  the 
Marquis  we  want  him  immediately,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Bread,  who  quietly  retired. 

Young  Madame  de  Bellegarde  approached  her 
sister-in-law  and  embraced  her,  and  then  she  turned, 
intensely  smiling,  to  Newman.  "She's  as  charming 
as  you  like.  I  congratulate  you." 

"I  do  the  same,  Mr.  Newman,"  said  Madame  de 
Bellegarde  with  extreme  solemnity.  "My  daughter's 
an  extraordinarily  good  woman.  She  may  have 
faults,  but  I  don't  know  them." 

"  My  mother  does  n't  often  make  jokes,"  Madame 
de  Cintre  observed;  "  but  when  she  does  they're 
terrible." 

"She's  a  pearl,  she's  adorable,"  the  Marquise 
Urbain  resumed,  looking  at  her  sister-in-law  with  her 
head  on  one  side.  "Yes,  I  congratulate  you." 

Madame  de  Cintre  turned  away  and,  taking  up 
a  piece  of  tapestry,  began  to  ply  the  needle.  Some 
minutes  of  silence  elapsed,  which  were  interrupted 
by  the  arrival  of  M.  de  Bellegarde.  He  came  in  with 

276 


THE  AMERICAN 

hat  in  hand  and  irreproachably  gloved,  and  was 
followed  by  his  brother  Valentin,  who  appeared  to 
have  just  entered  the  house.  The  Marquis  looked 
round  the  circle  and  administered  to  Newman  his 
due  little  measure  of  recognition.  Valentin  saluted 
his  mother  and  sisters  and,  as  he  shook  hands  with 
his  friend,  appeared  to  put  him  a  sharp  mute  question. 

"  Arrivez  done,  messieurs!"  cried  the  young 
Marquise.  "We've  great  news  for  you." 

"Speak  to  your  brother,  my  daughter,"  said  the 
old  woman  to  Claire. 

Madame  de  Cintre  had  been  looking  at  her  tap- 
estry, but  on  this  she  raised  her  eyes.  "  I  've  accepted 
Mr.  Newman,  Urbain." 

"Yes,  sir,  your  sister  has  nobly  consented,"  said 
Newman.  "You  see  after  all  I  knew  what  I  was 
about." 

"I  beg  you  to  believe  I'm  charmed!"  M.  de  Belle- 
garde  replied  with  superior  benignity. 

"So  am  I,  my  dear  man,"  said  Valentin  to  New- 
man. "The  Marquis  and  I  are  charmed.  I  can't 
marry  myself,  but  I  can  understand  it  in  others  when 
the  inducements  to  it  are  overwhelming.  I  can't  stand 
on  my  head,  but  I  can  applaud  a  clever  acrobat  when 
he  brings  down  the  house.  My  dear  sister,  I  bless 
your  union  with  this  delightful  gentleman." 

The  Marquis  stood  looking  for  a  while  into  the 
crown  of  his  hat.  "We've  been  prepared,"  he  said 
at  last,  "but  it's  inevitable  that  in  the  face  of  the 
event  we  should  eprouver  a  certain  emotion."  And 
he  gave  the  oddest  smile  his  visitor  had  ever  be- 
held. 

277 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  feel  no  emotion  that  I  was  not  perfectly  pre- 
pared for,"  his  mother,  upon  this,  remarked. 

"I  can't  say  that  for  myself,"  said  Newman,  who 
felt  in  his  face  a  different  light  from  that  of  the  Mar- 
quis. "  I  'm  distinctly  happier  than  I  expected  to  be. 
[  suppose  it's  the  sight  of  all  yr»ur  happiness!" 

"Don't  exaggerate  that,"  said  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  as  she  got  up  and  laid  her  hand  on  her  daugh- 
ter's arm.  "  You  can't  expect  an  honest  old  woman  to 
thank  you  for  taking  away  her  beautiful  only  daugh- 


ter." 


"You  forget  me,  dear  madame,"  the  young  Mar- 
quise demurely  interposed. 

"Yes,  she's  very,  very  beautiful,"  Newman 
agreed  while  he  covered  Claire  with  his  bright  still 
protection. 

"And  when  is  the  wedding,  pray?"  asked  young 
Madame  de  Bellegarde.  "I  must  have  a  month  to 
think  over  the  question  of  my  falbalas." 

"Ah,  the  time  must  be  particularly  discussed," 
said  the  Marquise. 

"  Oh,  we  '11  discuss  it  thoroughly,  and  we'll  promptly 
let  you  know!"  Newman  gaily  declared. 

"I  make  very  little  doubt  we  shall  agree,"  said 
Urbain. 

"  If  you  don't  agree  with  Madame  de  Cintre  you  '11 
be  very  unreasonable,"  his  visitor  went  on. 

"Come,  come,  Urbain,"  said  young  Madame  de 
Bellegarde,  "I  must  go  straight  to  my  tailor's." 

The  old  lady  had  been  standing  with  her  hand  on 
her  daughter's  arm  and  her  eyes  on  her  face.  Madame 
de  Cmtre  had  got  up;  she  seemed  inscrutably  to 

'278 


THE  AMERICAN 

wait.  Her  mother  exhaled  a  long  heavy  breath.  "No, 
I  can't  say  I  had  been  sure  of  you.  You  're  a  very 
lucky  gentleman,"  she  added  with  a  rather  grand 
turn  to  their  guest. 

"Oh,  I  know  that!"  he  answered.  "I  feel  tre- 
mendously proud.  I  feel  like  crying  it  on  the  house- 
tops —  like  stopping  people  in  the  street  to  tell  them." 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  narrowed  her  lips.  "  Pray 
do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"Oh,  the  more  people  who  know  it  the  better," 
Newman  roundly  returned.  "  I  have  n't  yet  an- 
nounced it  here,  but  I  cabled  it  this  morning  to 
America." 

"'Cabled*  it?"  She  spoke  as  if  — what  indeed 
well  might  be — she  had  never  heard  the  expression. 

"To  New  York,  to  Saint  Louis  and  to  San  Fran- 
cisco; those  are  the  principal  cities  you  know.  To- 
morrow I  shall  tell  my  friends  here." 

"Have  you  so  many?"  asked  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  in  a  tone  of  which  he  perhaps  but  partly 
measured  the  impertinence. 

"Enough  to  bring  me  a  great  many  hand-shakes 
and  congratulations.  To  say  nothing,"  he  added  in 
a  moment,  "of  those  I  shall  receive  from  your  own 
friends."  ' 

"Our  own  won't  use  the  telegraph,"  said  the 
Marquise  as  she  took  her  departure. 

M.  de  Bellegarde,  whose  wife,  her  imagination 
having  apparently  taken  flight  to  the  tailor's,  was 
fluttering  her  silken  wings  in  emulation,  shook  hands 
with  Newman  very  pertinently  and  said  with  a  more 
persuasive  accent  than  the  latter  had  ever  heard  him 

279 


THE  AMERICAN 

use:    "I  beg  you  to  count  on  me  for  everything." 
Then  his  wife  led  him  away. 

Valentin,  on  this,  stood  looking  from  his  sister  to 
his  friend.  "I  hope  you've  both  reflected  very 
seriously." 

Madame  de  Cintre  smiled.  "We've  neither  your 
powers  of  reflexion  nor  your  depth  of  seriousness,  but 
we've  done  our  best." 

"  Well,  I  've  a  great  regard  for  each  of  you,"  the 
young  man  continued.  "You're  charming,  innocent, 
beautiful  creatures.  But  I'm  not  satisfied,  on  the 
whole,  that  you  belong  to  that  small  and  superior 
class  —  that  exquisite  group  —  composed  of  persons 
who  are  worthy  to  remain  unmarried.  These  are 
rare  souls,  they're  the  salt  of  the  earth.  But  I  don't 
mean  to  be  invidious;  the  marrying  people  are  often 
very  gentils." 

"  Valentin  holds  that  women  should  marry  and  that 
men  should  n't,"  said  Madame  de  Cintre.  "I  don't 
know  how  he  arranges  it." 

"I  arrange  it  by  adoring  you,  my  sister,"  he 
ardently  answered. 

"You  had  better  adore  some  one  you  can  marry, 
by  my  example,"  Newman  laughed.  "  I  '11  arrange 
that  for  you  some  day.  I  foresee  I  'm  going  to  turn 
apostle." 

Valentin  was  on  the  threshold;  he  looked  back  a 
moment  with  a  face  that  had  grown  grave.  "  I  adore 
some  one  I  cant  marry!"  And  he  dropped  tht 
portiere  and  departed. 

"They  don't  really  like  it,  you  know,"  Newman 
said  as  he  stood  there  before  his  mistress. 

280 


THE  AMERICAN 

"No,"  she  returned  after  a  moment,  "they  don't 
really  like  it." 

"  Well  now,  do  you  mind  that  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes!"  she  said  after  another  interval. 

"But  is  n't  that  a  mistake  ?" 

"It  may  be,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  should  prefer 
that  my  mother  were  pleased." 

"Why  the  dickens  then,"  he  yearningly  enquired, 
"  is  nt  she  pleased  ?  She  gave  you  leave  to  accept  me." 

"Very  true;  I  don't  understand  it.  And  yet  I  do 
'mind '  it,  as  you  say.  You  '11  call  that  superstitious." 

"That  will  depend  on  how  much  you  let  it  worry 
you.  Then  I  shall  call  it  an  awful  bore." 

"I'll  keep  it  to  myself,"  said  Madame  de  Cintre. 
"It  shall  not,  I  promise,  worry  you."  And  they  then 
talked  of  their  marriage-day,  and  she  assented  un- 
reservedly to  his  desire  to  have  it  fixed  for  an  early 
date. 

His  messages  by  cable  were  answered  promptly 
and  with  interest.  Having  despatched  in  reality  but 
three  of  these,  he  received,  for  fruit  of  his  investment, 
as  he  called  it,  no  less  than  eight  electrical  outpourings, 
all  concisely  humorous,  which  he  put  into  his  pocket- 
book  and,  the  next  time  he  encountered  Madame  de 
Beliegarde,  drew  forth  and  displayed  to  her.  This, 
it  must  be  confessed,  was  a  slightly  malicious  stroke; 
the  reader  will  judge  in  what  degree  the  offence  was 
venial.  He  knew  she  would  dislike  his  barbaric 
trophies,  but  he  was  himself  possessed  by  a  certain 
hardness  of  triumph.  Madame  de  Cintre,  on  the 
other  hand,  quite  artlessly,  quite  touchingly  admired 
them,  and,  most  of  them  being  of  a  wit  quainter  than 

281 


THE  AMERICAN 

any  she  had  ever  encountered,  laughed  at  them 
immoderately  and  enquired  into  the  character  ol 
their  authors.  Newman,  now  that  his  prize  was 
gained,  felt  a  peculiar  desire  that  his  triumph  should 
be  manifest.  He  more  than  suspected  the  Bellegardes 
of  keeping  quiet  about  it  and  allowing  it,  in  their 
select  circle,  but  a  limited  resonance;  and  it  pleased 
him  to  think  that  if  he  were  to  take  the  trouble  he 
might,  as  he  phrased  it,  break  all  their  windows. 
No  honest  man  ever  enjoys  any  sign  of  his  not  being 
acknowledged  in  his  totality,  and  yet  our  friend, 
with  his  lucid  vision,  was  not  conscious  of  humilia- 
tion. He  had  not  this  good  excuse  for  his  somewhat 
aggressive  impulse  to  promulgate  his  felicity;  his 
sentiment  was  of  another  degree.  He  wanted  for 
once  to  make  the  heads  of  the  house  of  Bellegarde 
simply  feel  the  weight  of  his  hand;  for  when  should 
he  have  another  chance  ?  He  had  had  for  the  past 
six  months  a  sense  of  the  old  woman's  and  her  elder 
son's  looking  straight  over  his  head,  and  he  was  now 
resolved  that  they  should  toe  a  mark  which  he  would 
give  himself  the  satisfaction  of  drawing. 

"It's  like  seeing  a  bottle  emptied  when  the  wine'i 
poured  too  slowly,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Tristram.  "They 
make  me  want  to  joggle  their  elbows  and  force  them 
to  spill  their  wine." 

To  this  Mrs.  Tristram  answered  that  he  had 
better  leave  them  alone  and  let  them  do  things  in 
their  own  way.  "  You  must  make  allowances  for  them 
—  it 's  natural  enough  they  should  hang  fire  a  little. 
They  thought  they  accepted  you  when  you  made 
your  application :  but  they're  not  people  of  imagina- 

282 


THE  AMERICAN 

tion,  they  could  n't  project  themselves  into  the  future, 
and  now  they'll  have  to  begin  again.  But  they  are 
people  of  honour  and  they'll  do  whatever 's  neces- 
sary." 

Newman  spent  a  few  moments  in  narrow-eyed 
meditation.  "I'm  not  hard  on  them,"  he  presently 
said,  "  and  to  prove  it  I  '11  invite  them  all  to  a  festival." 

"  A  festival  —  ?" 

"You've  been  laughing  at  my  great  gilded  rooms 
all  winter;  I  '11  show  you  they're  good  for  something. 
I  '11  give  a  party.  What 's  the  grandest  thing  one  can 
do  here  ?  I  '11  hire  all  the  great  singers  from  the  opera 
and  all  the  first  people  from  the  Theatre  Fran^ais, 
and  I  '11  hold  an  entertainment  —  the  biggest  kind 
of  show." 

"  And  who  will  you  invite  ? " 

"You  two,  first  of  all.  And  the  old  woman,  damn 
her,  and  her  son  and  her  son's  wife.  And  Valentin 
of  course  —  for  the  fun  of  him.  And  then  every  one 
of  their  friends  whom  I  have  met  at  their  house  or 
elsewhere,  every  one  who  has  shown  me  the  minimum 
of  politeness,  every  duke  of  them,  such  as  they  are, 
every  doddering  old  duchess,  every  'great  name'  ir. 
the  place.  And  then  all  my  friends,  without  excep- 
tion —  Miss  Kitty  Upjohn,  Miss  Dora  Finch,  Gen- 
~ral  Packard,  C.  P.  Hatch,  every  pet  horror  even  of 
/ours.  And  every  one  shall  know  what  it 's  about  — 
to  celebrate  my  engagement  to  the  Countess  de 
Cintre,  who  shall  sit,  through  it  all,  on  a  golden  chair 
above  their  heads  and  look  as  beautiful  —  and  per- 
haps, poor  dear,  as  bored  —  as  a  saint  in  paradise, 
What  do  you  think  of  the  idea  ? " 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  think  it  odious!"  said  Mrs.  Tristram.  And 
then  in  a  moment:  "I  think  it  delicious!" 

The  very  next  evening  Newman  repaired  to 
Madame  de  Bellegarde's  own  drawing-room,  where 
he  found  her  surrounded  by  her  children  and  invited 
her  to  honour  his  poor  dwelling  by  her  presence  on 
a  certain  evening  a  fortnight  distant. 

The  Marquise  stared  a  moment.  "My  dear  sir," 
she  cried,  "  what  on  earth  do  you  want  to  do  to  me  ? " 

"To  make  you  acquainted  with  a  few  people  and 
then  to  place  you  in  a  very  easy  chair  and  ask  you  to 
listen  to  Madame  Frezzolini's  singing." 

"  You  mean  to  give  a  conceit  ? " 

"Something  of  that  sort." 

"  And  to  have  a  crowd  of  people  ? " 

"All  my  friends,  and  I  hope  some  of  yours  and  your 
daughter's.  I  want  to  celebrate  my  engagement." 

It  seemed  to  him  she  had  turned  perceptibly  pale. 
She  opened  her  fan,  a  fine  old  painted  fan  of  the  last 
century,  and  looked  at  the  picture,  which  represented 
a  fete  champetre  —  a  lady  singing  to  a  guitar  and  a 
group  of  dancers  round  a  garlanded  Hermes.  "We 
go  out  so  little,"  her  elder  son  murmured,  "  since  my 
poor  father's  death." 

"  But  my  poor  father  's  still  alive,  my  tnend,"  said 
his  wife.  "I'm  only  waiting  for  my  invitation  to 
accept  it;"  and  she  glanced  with  amiable  confidence 
at  Newman.  "It  will  be  magnificent,  I'm  sure  of 
that." 

I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  the  discredit  of  Newman's 
gallantry,  that  this  lady's  invitation  was  not  then  and 
there  bestowed;  he  was  giving  all  his  attention  to  her 

284 


THE  AMERICAN 

mother-in-law.  Madame  de  Bellegarde  looked  up 
at  last  with  a  prodigious  extemporised  grace.  "I 
can't  think  of  letting  you  offer  me  a  fete  until  I  've 
offered  you  one.  We  want  to  present  you  to  our 
friends;  we'll  invite  them  all.  We  have  it  very  much 
at  heart.  We  must  do  things  in  order.  Come  to  me 
about  the  twenty-fifth;  I'll  let  you  know  the  exact 
day  immediately.  We  shall  not  have  any  one  so  fine 
as  Madame  Frezzolini,  but  we  shall  have  some  very 
good  people.  After  that  you  may  talk  of  your  own 
party."  She  spoke  with  a  certain  quick  eagerness, 
smiling  more  agreeably  as  she  went  on. 

It  seemed  to  Newman  a  handsome  proposal,  and 
such  proposals  always  touched  the  sources  of  his 
good-nature.  He  replied  after  a  little  discussion  that 
he  would  be  glad  to  come  on  the  twenty-fifth  or  any 
other  day,  and  that  it  mattered  very  little  whether  he 
met  his  friends  at  her  house  or  his  own.  We  have 
noted  him  for  observant,  yet  on  this  occasion  he  failed 
to  catch  a  thin  sharp  eyebeam,  as  cold  as  a  flash  of 
steel,  which  passed  between  Madame  de  Bellegarde 
and  the  Marquis  and  which  we  may  presume  to 
have  been  a  commentary  on  the  innocence  displayed 
in  that  latter  clause  of  his  speech. 

Count  Valentin  walked  away  with  him  that  even- 
ing and,  when  they  had  left  the  scene  of  so  many 
anxieties  well  behind  them,  said  reflectively:  "My 
mother 's  very  strong  —  ah,  but  uncommonly  strong." 
Then  in  answer  to  an  interrogative  movement  of 
Newman's:  "She  was  driven  to  the  wall,  but  you'd 
never  have  thought  it.  Her  party  on  the  twenty-fifth 
was  an  invention  of  the  moment.  She  had  no  idea 


THE  AMERICAN 

whatever  of  giving  one,  but,  finding  it  tne  only  issue 
from  your  proposal,  she  looked  straight  at  the  dose 
—  pardon  the  expression  —  and  bolted  it,  as  you 
saw,  without  winking.  She's  really  rather  grand, 
you  know." 

"Well,  I  wonder!"  said  Newman>  divided,  (his 
time,  rather  whimsically,  quite  appreciatively,  be- 
tween the  sense  of  his  own  force  and  the  sense  of 
hers.  "  I  don't  care  a  straw  for  her  fiddles  and  ices; 
I  'm  willing  to  take  the  will  for  the  deed." 

"No,  no!"  —  and  Valentin  showed  an  inconse- 
quent touch  of  family  pride.  "The  thing  will  be 
done  now,  and  I  dare  say  it  will  be  quite  folichon!" 


XV 


VALENTIN'S  ironic  forecast  of  the  secession  of  Made- 
moiselle Nioche  from  her  father's  domicile  and  his 
irreverent  reflexion  on  the  attitude  of  this  anxious 
parent  in  so  grave  a  catastrophe  received  a  practical 
commentary  in  the  fact  that  M.  Nioche  was  slow 
to  seek  another  interview  with  his  late  pupil.  It  had 
cost  Newman  some  disgust  to  be  forced  to  assent  to 
his  friend's  expert  analysis  of  the  old  man's  phil- 
osophy, and,  though  circumstances  seemed  to  indi- 
cate that  he  had  not  given  himself  up  to  a  noble 
despair,  our  hero  thought  it  possible  he  might  be 
suffering  more  keenly  than  he  allowed  to  become 
flagrant.  M.  Nioche  had  been  in  the  habit  of  paying 
him  a  respectful  little  visit  every  two  or  three  weeks, 
and  his  absence  might  be  a  proof  quite  as  much  of 
extreme  depression  as  of  a  desire  to  conceal  the  suc- 
cess with  which  he  had  patched  up  his  sorrow.  New- 
man presently  gathered  in  the  bright  garden  of 
Valentin's  talk  several  of  the  flowers  of  the  young 
woman's  recent  history. 

"I  told  you  she  was  remarkable,"  this  consistent 
r>*asoner  declared,  "and  it's  proved  by  the  way  she 
has  managed  this  most  important  of  all  her  steps, 
She  has  had  other  chances,  but  she  was  resolved  to 
take  none  but  the  best.  She  did  you  the  honour  to 
think  for  a  while  that  you  might  be  such  a  chance. 
You  were  not;  so  she  gathered  up  her  patience  and 

287 


THE  AMERICAN 

waited  a  little  longer.  At  last  her  occasion  arrived, 
and  she  made  her  move  with  her  eyes  open.  I'm 
very  sure  she  had  no  innocence  to  lose,  but  she  ha(' 
all  her  respectability.  Dubious  little  damsel  as  you 
thought  her  she  had  kept  a  firm  hold  of  that;  nothing 
could  be  proved  against  her,  and  she  was  determined 
not  to  let  her  reputation  go  till  she  had  got  her 
equivalent.  About  her  equivalent  she  had  high 
ideas.  Apparently  her  requirements  have  been  met. 
Well,  they've  been  met  in  a  superior  form.  The 
form  's  fifty  years  old,  baldheaded  and  deaf,  but  he 's 
very  easy  about  money." 

"And  where  in  the  world,"  asked  Newman,  "did 
you  pick  up  this  valuable  information  ? " 

"  In  animated  conversation.  Remember  my  frivol- 
ous habits.  Conversation  —  and  this  time  not  crim- 
inal !  —  with  a  young  woman  engaged  in  the  humble 
trade  of  glove-cleaner  who  keeps  a  small  shop  in 
the  Rue  Saint-Roch.  M.  Nioche  lives  in  the  same 
house,  up  six  pairs  of  stairs,  across  the  court  in  and 
out  of  whose  ill-swept  doorway  Miss  Noemie  has  been 
flitting  for  the  last  five  years.  The  little  glove-cleaner 
was  an  old  acquaintance;  she  used  to  be  the  friend 
of  a  friend  of  mine  —  the  foolish  friend  of  a  foolish 
friend — who  has  married  and  given  up  friendship. 
I  often  saw  her  in  his  society.  As  soon  as  I  made 
her  out  behind  her  clear  little  window-pane  I  recol- 
lected her.  I  had  on  a  spotlessly  fresh  pair  of  gloves, 
but  I  went  in  and  held  up  my  hands  and  said  to 
her:  'Dear  mademoiselle,  what  will  you  ask  me 
for  cleaning  these?'  'Dear  Count,'  she  answered 
immediately,  '  I  '11  clean  them  for  you  for  nothing.1 

288 


THE  AMERICAN 

She  had  instantly  recognised  me  and  I  had  to  heat 
her  history  from  ever  so  far  back.  But  after  that  I 
put  her  on  that  of  her  neighbours.  She  knows  and 
admires  Noemie,  and  she  told  me  what  I  Ve  just  re- 
peated." 

A  month  elapsed  without  any  reappearance  of 
M.  Nioche,  and  Newman,  who  every  morning  read, 
for  practice,  about  the  suicides  of  the  day  in  a  news- 
paper, began  to  suspect  that,  mortification  proving 
stubborn,  he  had  sought  a  balm  for  his  wounded 
pride  in  the  waters  of  the  Seine.  He  had  a  note  of 
the  poor  gentleman's  address  in  his  pocket-book, 
and,  finding  himself  one  day  in  the  quartier,  de- 
termined, so  far  as  he  might,  to  clear  up  his  doubts. 
He  repaired  to  the  house  in  the  Rue  Saint-Roch  which 
bore  the  recorded  number,  and  observed  in  a  neigh- 
bouring basement,  behind  a  dangling  row  of  neatly 
inflated  gloves,  the  unmistakeable  face  of  Valentin's 
informant  —  a  sallow  person  in  a  dressing-gown  — 
peering  into  the  street  as  if  in  expectation  that  this 
amiable  nobleman  would  pass  again.  But  it  was  not 
to  her  that  Newman  applied  ;  he  simply  enquired  of 
the  portress  if  M.  Nioche  were  at  home.  The  portress 
replied,  as  the  portress  invariably  replies,  that  her 
lodger  had  gone  out  barely  three  minutes  before,  but 
then,  through  the  little  square  hole  of  her  lodge- 
window,  taking  the  measure  of  Newman's  resources 
and  seeing  them,  by  an  unspecified  process,  refresh 
the  dry  places  of  servitude  to  occupants  of  fifth  floors 
on  courts,  she  added  that  M.  Nioche  would  have 
had  just  time  to  reach  the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie,  round 
the  second  turning  to  the  left,  at  which  establishment 

289 


THE  AMERICAN 

he  regularly  spent  his  afternoons.  Newman  thanked 
her  for  the  information,  took  the  second  turning  to 
the  left  and  arrived  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie.  He  felt 
a  momentary  hesitation  to  go  in;  was  it  not  rather 
mean  to  press  so  hard  on  humiliated  dignity  ?  There 
passed  across  his  vision  an  image  of  a  haggard  little 
septuagenarian  taking  measured  sips  of  a  glass  of 
sugar  and  water  and  finding  them  quite  impotent  to 
sweeten  his  desolation.  But  he  opened  the  door  and 
entered,  perceiving  nothing  at  first  but  a  dense  cloud 
of  tobacco-smoke.  Across  this,  however,  in  a  corner, 
he  presently  descried  the  figure  of  M.  Nioche,  stirring 
the  contents  of  a  deep  glass  and  with  a  lady  seated 
in  front  of  him.  The  lady's  back  was  presented,  but 
her  companion  promptly  perceived  and  recognised 
his  visitor.  Newman  had  gone  forward,  and  the 
old  man  rose  slowly,  gazing  at  him  with  a  more 
blighted  expression  even  than  usual. 

"If  you're  drinking  hot  punch,"  Newman  said, 
"I  suppose  you're  not  dead.  That's  all  right.  You 
need  n't  move  to  show  it." 

M.  Nioche  stood  staring  with  a  fallen  jaw,  not 
risking  any  confidence.  The  lady  who  faced  him 
turned  round  in  her  place  and  glanced  up  with  a 
spirited  toss  of  her  head,  displaying  the  agreeable 
features  of  his  daughter.  She  looked  at  Newman 
hard,  to  see  how  he  was  looking  at  her,  then  —  I 
don't  know  what  she  discovered — she  said  graciously: 
"  How  d'  ye  do,  monsieur  ?  won't  you  come  into  our 
little  corner  ? " 

"  Did  you  come  —  did  you  come  after  me,  mon- 
sieur?" asked  M.  Nioche  very  softly. 

290 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  went  to  your  house  to  see  what  had  become  of 
you.  I  thought  you  might  be  sick,"  monsieur  said 
mildly  enough. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  as  always,"  the  old  man 
returned.  "No,  I'm  not  well.  Yes,  I'm  seek." 

"Ask  monsieur  to  sit  down,"  said  Mademoiselle 
fticche.  ''Garcon,  bring  a  chair  for  monsieur." 

"Will  you  do  us  the  honour  to  seat?"  M.  Nioche 
enquired  timorously  and  with  a  double  foreignness 
of  accent. 

Newman  said  to  himself  that  he  had  better  see  the 
thing  out,  and  he  took  a  place  at  the  end  of  the  table 
with  the  brilliant  girl  on  his  left  and  the  dingy  old 
man  on  the  other  side.  "You'll  take  something  of 
course,"  said  Miss  Noemie,  who  was  sipping  a 
brown  madere.  Newman  said  he  guessed  not,  and  tKon 
she  turned  to  her  parent  with  a  smile.  "What  an 
honour,  eh  ?  —  he  has  only  come  for  us."  M.  Nioche 
drained  his  pungent  glass  at  a  long  draught  and 
looked  out  from  eyes  more  lachrymose  in  consequence. 
"  But  you  did  n't  come  for  me,  eh  ?"  Noemie  went  on. 
"You  did  n't  expect  to  find  me  here  ?" 

He  observed  the  change  in  her  appearance  and 
that  she  was  very  elegant,  really  prettier  than  before; 
she  looked  a  year  or  two  older,  and  "t  wac  noticeable 
that,  to  the  eye,  she  had  only  added  a  sharp  accent 
to  her  appearance  of  "'propriety,"  only  taken  a 
longer  step  toward  distinction.  She  was  dressed  in 
quiet  colours  and  wore  her  expensively  unobtrusive 
gear  with  a  grace  that  might  have  come  from  years  of 
practice.  Her  presence  of  mind,  her  perfect  equi* 
librium,  struck  Newrnan  as  portentous,  and  he  in- 

291 


THE  AMERICAN 

clined  to  agree  with  Valentin  that  the  young  lady 
was  very  remarkable.  "No,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  did  n't 
come  for  you,"  he  said,  "and  I  did  n't  expect  to  find 
you.  I  was  told,"  he  added  in  a  moment,  "that  you 
had  left  your  good  father." 

"Quelle  horreurf"  she  cried  with  the  brightest  of 
all  her  smiles.  "Does  one  ever  leave  one's  good 
father  ?  You've  the  happy  proof  of  the  contrary." 

"Yes,  convincing  proof,"  said  Newman  with  his 
almost  embarrassed  eyes  on  M.  Nioche.  The  old 
man  caught  his  glance  obliquely,  with  his  faded 
deprecation,  and  then,  lifting  his  empty  glass,  pre- 
tended to  drink  again. 

"Who  told  you  that  ?"  Noemie  demanded.  "But 
I  know  very  well.  It  was  M.  de  Bellegarde.  Why 
don't  you  say  yes  ?  You  're  not  polite." 

"I'm  so  shy  and  simple  and  stupid,"  Newman 
said  with  a  certain  fond  good  faith. 

"I  set  you  a  better  example.  I  know  M.  de  Belle- 
garde  told  you.  He  knows  a  great  deal  about  me  — 
or  he  thinks  he  does.  He  has  taken  a  great  deal  oi 
trouble  to  find  out,  but  half  of  it  is  n't  true.  In  the 
first  place  I  h**ve  n't  left  my  father,  any  more  than 
he  has  left  me.  I'm  much  too  fond  of  him,  and 
never  so  fond  as  now,  when  he  has  been  gentil,  mats 
gentil  — !  Is  n't  it  so,  little  father  ?  Have  n't  you  been 
genttl,  mats  gentil?  M.  de  Bellegarde  's  a  charming 
young  man ;  it's  impossible  to  mieux  causer.  I  know 
a  good  deal  about  him  too;  you  can  tell  him  that 
when  you  next  see  him." 

"No,"  said  Newman  with  a  sturdy  grin;  "I  won't 
carry  any  messages  from  you." 

292 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  his  young  friend  placidly 
returned.  "I  don't  depend  on  you,  nor  does  M.  de 
Bellegarde  either.  He's  very  much  interested  in  me, 
he  can  be  left  to  his  own  devices.  He  's  a  contrast  to 
you,  monsieur,'"'  Noemie  went  on  with  a  fine  little 
flight  of  dignity, 

"  Oh,  he 's  a  great  contrast  to  me,  I  've  no  doubt," 
said  Newman.  "  But  I  don't  exactly  know  how  you 


mean  it." 


"  I  mean  it  in  this  way.  First  of  all  he  never  offered 
to  help  me  to  a  Jot  and  a  husband."  And  Mademoiselle 
Nioche  expressively  paused.  "I  won't  say  that's  in 
his  favour,  for  I  do  you  justice.  What  led  you,  by 
the  way,  to  make  me  such  a  monstrous  offer  ?  You 
did  n't  care  for  me." 

"Oh  yes  —  I  did,"  said  Newman. 

"Well,  how  much?" 

"It  would  have  given  me  real  pleasure  to  see  you 
married  to  a  respectable  young  fellow." 

"With  six  thousand  francs  of  income!"  Noemie 
cried.  "Do  you  call  that  caring  for  me  ?  I 'm  afraid 
you  know  little  about  women.  You  were  not  galant; 
you  were  not  what  you  might  have  been." 

Newman  flushed  a  trifle  fiercely.  "I  say!"  he 
exclaimed,  "that's  rather  strong.  I  had  no  idea  I  had 
been  so  shabby." 

She  laughed  out  as  she  took  up  her  mufF —  it  was 
almost  her  only  hint  of  vulgarity.  "It's  something 
at  any  rate  to  have  made  you  angry." 

Her  father  had  leaned  both  his  elbows  on  the 
table,  and  his  head,  bent  forward,  was  supported 
on  his  hands,  the  thin  white  fingers  of  which  were 

293 


THE  AMERICAN 

pressed  over  his  ears.  In  this  position  he  stared 
fixedly  at  the  bottom  of  his  empty  glass,  and  New- 
man supposed  he  was  not  hearing.  Noemie  buttoned 
her  furred  jacket  and  pushed  back  her  chair,  casting 
a  glance  charged  with  the  consciousness  of  an  ex- 
pensive appearance  first  down  over  her  flounces 
and  then  up  at  Newman. 

"You  had  better  have  remained  an  honest  girl," 
his  obstinate  sense  of  his  old  friend's  painful  situa- 
tion prompted  him  at  last  to  remark. 

M.  Nioche  continued  to  stare  at  the  bottom  of  his 
glass,  and  his  daughter  got  up,  still  bravely  smiling, 
"You  mean  that  I  looh  so  much  like  one?  That's 
more  than  most  women  do  nowadays.  Don't  judge 
me  yet  a  while,"  she  dded.  "I  mean  to  succeed; 
that's  what  I  mean  to  do.  I  leave  you;  I  don't  mean 
to  be  seen  in  such  places  as  this,  for  one  thing.  I 
can't  think  what  you  want  of  my  poor  father;  he's 
very  comfortable  now.  It  is  n't  his  fault  either. 
Au  revoir,  little  father."  And  she  tapped  the  old  man 
on  the  head  with  her  mufF.  Then  she  stopped  a 
minute,  looking  again  at  their  visitor.  "Tell  M.  de 
Bellegarde,  when  he  wants  news  of  me,  to  come  and 
get  it  from  me!"  And  she  turned  and  departed,  the 
white-aproned  waiter,  with  a  bow,  holding  the  door 
wide  open  for  her. 

M.  Nioche  sat  motionless,  and  Newman  hardly 
knew  what  to  say  to  him.  The  old  man  looked  dis- 
mally foolish.  "So  you  determined  not  to  shoot  her, 
after  all,"  Newman  said  presently. 

M.  Nioche,  without  moving,  raised  his  eyes  and 
let  all  their  confession  quite  dismally  and  abjectly 

294 


THE  AMERICAN 

come.  They  did  n't  somehow  presume  to  ask  for 
pity,  yet  they  doubtless  pretended  even  less  to  a 
rugged  ability  to  do  without  it.  They  might  have 
expressed  the  state  of  mind  of  an  innocuous  insect, 
flat  in  shape,  conscious  of  the  impending  pressure  of 
a  boot-sole  and  reflecting  that  he  was  perhaps  too 
flat  to  be  crushed.  M.  Nioche's  gaze  was  a  profes- 
sion of  moral  flatness.  "You  despise  me  terribly," 
he  said  in  the  weakest  possible  voice. 

"  Oh  no ;  it  's  not  your  own  affair.  And  hanged  if 
(  understand  your  institutions  anyway!" 

"I  made  you  too  many  fine  speeches,"  M.  Nioche 
added.  "I  meant  them  at  the  time." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  'm  very  glad  you  did  n't  shoot  her," 
Newman  went  on.  "I  was  afraid  you  might  have 
shot  yourself.  That's  why  I  came  to  look  you  up." 
And  he  began  to  button  his  coat. 

"Neither,  helasl  You  despise  me  and  I  can't  ex- 
plain to  you.  I  hoped  I  should  n't  see  you  again." 

"Why,  that's  pretty  mean,"  said  Newman.  "You 
should  n't  drop  your  friends  that  way.  Besides,  the 
last  time  you  came  to  see  me  I  thought  you  felt  rather 
fine." 

"Yes,  I  remember"  —  M.  Nioche  musingly  re- 
called it.  "I  must  have  been,  I  was,  in  a  fever.  I 
did  n't  know  what  I  said,  what  I  did.  I  spoke,  no 
doubt,  wild  words." 

"Ah  well,  you're  quieter  now." 

M.  Nioche  bethought  himself.  "As  quiet  as  the 
grave,"  he  then  struck  off. 

"  Are  you  very  unhappy  ? "  Newman  more  in- 
genuously asked. 

295 


THE  AMERICAN 

M.  Nioche  rubbed  his  forehead  slowly  and  even 
pushed  back  his  wig  a  little,  looking  askance  at  his 
empty  glass.  "Yes  —  yes.  But  that's  an  old  story, 
I  've  always  been  unhappy.  My  daughter  does  what 
she  will  with  me.  I  take  what  she  gives  me  —  I  make 
a  face,  but  I  take  it.  I  've  no  pluck,  and  when  you  've 
no  pluck  you  must  keep  quiet:  you  can't  go  about 
telling  people.  I  shan't  trouble  you  any  more." 

"Well,"  said  Newman,  rather  disgusted  at  the 
smooth  operation  of  the  old  man's  philosophy, 
"that's  as  you  please." 

M.  Nioche  seemed  to  have  been  prepared  to  be 
despised,  but  he  nevertheless  appealed  feebly  from 
his  patron's  faint  praise.  "After  all  she's  my  daugh- 
ter and  I  can  still  look  after  her.  If  she  has  her  bad 
idea,  why  she  has  it  and  she  won't  let  go  of  it.  And 
then  now,"  he  pointed  out  —  "  it 's  fine  talking !  But 
there  are  many  different  paths,  there  are  degrees. 
I  can  place  at  her  disposal  the  benefit,  the  benefit " 
—  and  he  paused,  staring  vaguely  at  his  friend,  who 
began  to  suspect  his  mind  of  really  giving  way  — 
"the  benefit  of  my  experience." 

"Your  experience?"  Newman  inquired,  both 
amused  and  amazed. 

''My  experience  of  business,"  said  M.  Nioche 
gravely. 

"Ah  yes,"  Newman  laughed,  "that  will  be  a  great 
advantage  to  her!"  And  then  he  said  good-bye  and 
offered  the  poor  foolish  old  man  his  hand. 

M.  Nioche  took  it  and  leaned  back  against  the  wall, 
holding  it  a  moment  and  looking  up  at  him.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  think  my  wits  are  going.  Very  likely;  I'vt 

296 


THE  AMERICAN 

always  a  pain  in  my  head.  That's  why  I  can't  ex- 
plain, I  can't  present  the  case.  And  she's  so  strong, 
she  makes  me  walk  as  she  will  —  anywhere!  But 
there 's  this  —  there 's  this."  And  he  stopped,  still 
staring  up  at  his  visitor.  His  little  white  eyes  ex- 
panded and  glittered  for  a  moment  like  those  of  a  cat 
in  the  dark.  "It's  not  as  it  seems.  I  haven't  for- 
given her.  Oh,  par  exemple,  no!" 

"That's  right,  don't  let  up  on  it.  If  you  should, 
you  don't  know  what  she  still  might  do!" 

"It's  horrible,  it's  terrible,"  said  M.  Nioche;  "but 
do  you  want  to  know  the  truth  ?  I  hate  her!  I  take 
what  she  gives  me,  and  I  hate  her  more.  To-day  she 
brought  me  three  hundred  francs;  they're  here  in 
my  waistcoat-pocket.  Now  I  hate  her  almost  cruelly. 
No,  I  have  n't  forgiven  her." 

Newman  had  a  return  of  his  candour.  "Why  then 
did  you  accept  the  money  ? " 

"  If  I  had  n't  I  should  have  hated  her  still  more. 
That,  you  see,  is  the  nature  of  misery.  No,  I  have  n't 
forgiven  her." 

"Well,  take  care  you  don't  hurt  her!"  Newman 
laughed  again.  And  with  this  he  took  his  leave.  As 
he  passed  along  the  glazed  side  of  the  cafe,  on  reach- 
ing the  street,  he  saw  the  old  man  motion  the  waiter, 
with  a  melancholy  gesture,  to  replenish  his  glass. 

A  week  after  his  visit  to  the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie  he 
called  one  morning  on  Valentin  de  Bellegarde  and 
by  good  fortune  found  him  at  home.  He  spoke  of 
his  interview  with  M.  Nioche  and  his  daughter,  and 
said  he  was  afraid  Valentin  had  judged  the  old  man 
correctly.  He  had  found  the  couple  hobnobbing 

297 


THE  AMERICAN 

together  in  amity;  the  old  gentleman's  rigour  was 
purely  theoretic.  Newman  confessed  he  was  dis- 
appointed ;  he  should  have  expected  to  see  his  ven- 
erable friend  take  high  ground. 

"High  ground,  my  dear  fellow!"  Valentin  re- 
turned; "there's  no  high  ground  for  him  to  take. 
The  only  perceptible  eminence  in  M.  Nioche's  hori- 
zon is  Montmartre,  which  is  n't  an  edifying  quarter. 
You  can't  go  mountaineering  in  a  flat  country." 

"He  remarked  indeed,"  said  Newman,  "that  he 
had  not  forgiven  her.  But  she  '11  never  find  it  out." 

"We  must  do  him  the  justice  to  suppose  he  in- 
tensely disapproves.  His  gifted  child,"  Valentin 
added,  "is  like  one  of  the  great  artists  whose  bio- 
graphies we  read,  those  who  at  the  beginning  of  their 
career  suffered  opposition  in  the  domestic  circle. 
Their  vocation  was  not  recognised  by  their  families, 
but  the  world  has  done  it  justice.  Noemie  has  a  vo- 
cation." 

"Damn  her  vocation!  Oh,"  added  Newman  im- 
patiently, "you're  a  cold-blooded  crew!" 

Valentin  sounded  him  a  moment  with  curious 
eyes.  "You  must  be  very  fond  of  boiled  beef  and 
cabbage  to  have  such  a  suspicion  of  ripe  peaches 
and  plums." 

But  Newman  sturdily  met  his  look.    "I  should  n't 
think  I'd  have  to  tell  you  what  fruit  I  gather!" 

The  young  man,  at  this,  closed  his  eyes  an  instant 
and  then,  with  a  motion  of  his  hand,  shook  his  head. 
After  which  he  gravely  said:  "I  back  you  more  than 
ever!" 

"Let   me   then,"   his   companion   returned,    "do 
208 


THE  AMERICAN 

what  I  suppose  you'd  call  the  fair  thing  by  you. 
Miss  Noemie  desired  me  to  tell  you  —  but  hanged 
if  I  know  what!" 

"Bless  your  quiet  imagination,"  said  Valentin, 
"do  you  suppose  I've  been  waiting  for  you?  I've 
been  to  see  her  for  myself  —  no  less  than  three  times 
these  five  days.  She's  a  charming  hostess;  we  attack 
the  noblest  subjects  of  discussion.  She 's  really  very 
clever  and  a  rare  and  remarkable  type;  not  at  all 
low  nor  wanting  to  be  low  —  determined  not  to  be. 
She  means  to  take  very  good  care  of  herself.  She 's 
as  perfect  as  you  please,  and  as  hard  and  clear-cut 
as  some  little  figure  of  a  sea-nymph  on  an  antique 
intaglio;  and  I  warrant  she  has  n't  a  grain  more 
true  sensibility  than  if  she  were  scooped  out  of  a  big 
amethyst.  You  can't  scratch  her  even  with  a  dia- 
mond. Extremely  pretty  —  really,  when  you  know 
her,  she's  wonderfully  pretty  —  intelligent,  deter- 
mined, ambitious,  unscrupulous,  capable  of  seeing 
a  man  strangled  without  changing  colour,  she 's,  upon 
my  honour,  remarkably  agreeable." 

"Well,"  said  Newman  after  reflexion,  "I  once 
saw  .in  a  needle-factory  a  gentleman  from  the  city, 
who  had  stopped  too  near  a  machine  that  struck 
him  as  curious,  picked  up  as  clean  as  if  he  had  been 
removed  by  a  silver  fork  from  a  china  plate,  and 
swallowed  down  and  ground  to  small  pieces!" 

Re-entering  his  rooms  late  in  the  evening,  three 
days  after  Madame  de  Bellegarde  had  struck  her 
bargain  with  him,  as  he  might  feel,  over  the  enter- 
tainment at  which  she  was  to  present  him  to  the 
world,  he  found  on  his  table  a  goodly  card  of  an- 

299 


THE  AMERICAN 

nouncement  to  the  effect  that  she  would  be  at  homf 
on  the  twenty-seventh  of  the  month  and  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  He  stuck  it  into  the  frame  of  his 
mirror  and  eyed  it  with  some  complacency;  it  seemed 
to  him  a  document  of  importance  and  an  emblem  of 
triumph.  Stretched  out  in  a  chair  he  looked  at  it  lov- 
ingly, and  while  he  so  revelled  Valentin  was  shown 
into  the  place.  The  young  man's  glance  presently 
followed  the  direction  of  Newman's  and  he  perceived 
his  mother's  invitation. 

"And  what  have  they  put  into  the  corner?  Not 
the  customary  'music,'  'dancing,'  or  'tableaux 
vivants'  ?  They  ought  at  least  to  put  'An  American 
of  Americans.' ' 

"Oh,  there  are  to  be  several  of  us,"  Newman  said. 
"Mrs.  Tristram  told  me  to-day  she  had  received  a 
card  and  sent  an  acceptance." 

"Ah  then,  with  Mrs.  Tristram  and  her  husband 
you'll  have  support.  My  mother  might  have  put  on 
her  card  'Three  Americans  in  a  Row'  —  which  you 
can  pronounce  in  either  way  you  like,  though  I  know 
the  way  I  should  suppose  most  American.  I  dare 
say  at  least  you  '11  not  lack  amusement.  You  '11  see 
a  great  many  of  the  best  people  in  France  —  I  mean 
of  the  long  pedigrees,  and  the  beaux  noms,  and  the 
great  fidelities,  and  the  rare  stupidities,  and  the  faces 
and  figures  that,  after  all,  sometimes,  I  suppose 
God  did  make.  We've  already  shown  you  speci- 
mens in  numbers — you  know  by  which  end  to  take 
them." 

"  Oh,  they  have  n't  hurt  me  yet,"  said  Newman, 
"  and  I  guess  they  would,  by  this  time,  if  they  were 

300 


[  THE  AMERICAN 

going  to,    I  seem  to  want  to  like  people,  these  days 

—  seem  regularly  to  like  liking  them,  and  almost 
any  one  will  do.    I  feel  so  good  that  if  I  was  n't  sure 
I  'm  going  to  be  married  I  might  think  I  'm  going  to 
die." 

"Do  you  make,"  the  young  man  enquired,  "so 
much  of  a  distinction  ? "  But  he  dropped  rather 
wearily  into  a  chair  and  went  on  before  his  host 
could  answer.  "Happy-  man,  only  remember  that 
there  are  poor  devils  whom  the  flaunted  happiness 
of  others  sometimes  irritates." 

"Do  you  call  a  person  a  poor  devil,"  demanded 
Newman,  "who's  as  good  as  my  brother-in-law?" 

"Your  brother-in-law  ?"  his  friend  a  trifle  musingly 
echoed. 

"  Say  then  my  brother,"  Newman  kindly  returned 

—  "  and  leave  the  other  description  for  yours." 

It  made  Valentin  after  an  instant  rise  to  him. 
"You're  really  very  charming  You  have  your  own 
way  for  it  —  which  must  have  been  your  way  o.f 
making  love.  Well,"  he  sighed  with  a  dimmer  smile 
than  usual,  "I  don't  wonder  and  I  don't  question! 
Only  you  are,  I  understand "  —  he  immediately 
took  himself  up  —  "'really  and  truly'  in  love  ?" 

"Yes,  sir!"  said  Newman  after  a  pause. 

"And  do  you  hold  that  she  is  ?" 

"You  had  better  ask  her,"  Newman  answered. 
"Not  for  me,  but  for  yourself." 

"  I  never  ask  anything  for  myself.  Have  n't  you 
noticed  that  ?  Besides,  she  would  n't  tell  me,  and 
it's  after  all  none  of  my  business." 

Newman  hesitated,  but  "She  doesn't  know!"  h« 
"301 


THE  AMERICAN 

the  next  thing  brought  out.  "However,  she  will 
know." 

"Ah  then,  you  will  —  which  I  see  you  don't  yet- 
But  what  you'll  know  will  be  what  you  want,  for 
that 's  the  way  things  turn  out  for  you."  And  Valen- 
tin's grave  fine  eyes,  as  if  under  some  impression 
oddly  quickened,  measured  him  again  a  moment  up 
and  down.  "The  way  you  cover  the  ground!  How- 
ever, being  as  you  are  a  giant,  you  move  naturally  in 
seven-league  boots."  With  which  again  he  turned 
restlessly  off. 

Newman's  attention,  from  before  the  fire,  followed 
him  a  little.  "There's  something  the  matter  with 
you  to-night:  you're  kind  of  perverse  —  you're 
almost  kind  of  vicious.  But  wait  till  I  'm  through 
with  my  business  —  to  which  I  wish  to  give  just  now 
my  undivided  attention  —  and  then  we  '11  talk.  By 
which  I  mean  I  '11  fix  you  somehow." 

"Ah,  there  will  be  plenty  of  me  for  you,  such  as 
I  am — for  you  always.  Only  when,  then,"  Valentin 
asked,  "is  the  event  ?" 

"About  five  weeks  hence  —  on  a  day  not  quite  yet 
settled." 

He  accepted  this  answer  with  interest,  in  spite  of 
which,  however,  "You  feel  very  confident  of  the 
future?"  he  next  attentively  demanded. 

"Confident,"  said  Newman  with  the  large  accent 
from  which  semitones  were  more  than  ever  absent. 
"I  knew  what  I  wanted  exactly,  and  now  I  know 
what  I've  got." 

"You're  sure  then  you're  going  to  be  happy?" 

"Sure  ? "  —  Newman  competently  weighed  it,  " So 
302 


THE  AMERICAN 

foolish  a  question  deserves  a  foolish  answer.  Yes 
—  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  ain't  sure!" 

Well,  if  Valentin  was  to  pass  for  perverse  it  would 
not  be,  he  seemed  to  wish  to  show,  for  nothing. 
"You're  not  afraid  of  anything?" 

"What  should  I  be  afraid  of?  You  can't  hurt 
me  unless  you  kill  me  by  some  violent  means.  That 
I  should  indeed  regard  as  a  tremendous  sell.  I  want 
to  live  and  I  mean  to  live:  I  mean  to  have  a  good 
time.  I  can't  die  of  sickness,  because  I  'm  naturally 
healthy,  and  the  time  for  dying  of  old  age  won't 
come  round  yet  a  while.  I  can't  lose  my  wife,  I  shall 
take  too  good  care  of  her.  I  can't  lose  my  money, 
or  much  of  it  —  I  've  fixed  it  so  on  purpose.  So  what 
have  I  to  be  afraid  of?" 

"You're  not  afraid  it  may  be  rather  a  mistake 
for  such  an  infuriated  modern  to  marry  —  well,  such 
an  old-fashioned  rococo  product;  a  daughter,  as  one 
may  say,  of  the  Crusaders,  almost  of  the  Patriarchs  ?" 

Newman,  who  had  been  moving  about  as  they 
talked,  stopped  before  his  visitor.  "  Does  that  mean 
you're  worried  for  her?" 

Valentin  met  his  eyes.  "I'm  worried  for  every- 
thing." 

" Ah,  if  that's  all  — !"  And  then:  "Trust  me  — 
because  I  'm  modern  and  can  compare  all  round  — 
to  know  where  I  stand!"  With  which,  as  from  the 
impulse  to  celebrate  his  happy  certitude  by  a  bonfire, 
he  turned  to  throw  a  couple  of  logs  on  the  already 
blazing  hearth.  Valentin  watched  a  few  moments 
the  quickened  flame;  after  which,  with  his  elbow 
supported  on  the  chimney  and  his  head  on  his  hand, 

3°3 


THE  AMERICAN 

he  gave  an  expressive  sigh.      "Got  a  headache?" 
Newman  asked. 

"Je  suis  triste"  he  answered  with  Gallic  sim- 
plicity. 

Newman  stared  at  the  remark  as  if  it  had  been 
scrawled  on  a  slate  by  a  school-boy  —  a  weakling 
whom  he  would  n't  wish,  however,  too  harshly  to 
snub.  "You've  got  a  sentimental  stomach-ache,  eh  ? 
Have  you  caught  it  from  the  lady  you  told  me  the 
other  night  you  adored  and  could  n't  marry?" 

"Did  I  really  speak  of  her?"  Valentin  asked  as 
if  a  little  struck.  "I  was  afraid  afterwards  I  had 
made  some  low  allusion  —  for  I  don't  as  a  general 
thing  (and  it's  a  rare  scruple  I  have!)  drag  in  ces 
dames  before  Claire.  But  I  was  feeling  the  bitter- 
ness of  life,  as  who  should  say,  when  I  spoke;  and 
—  yes,  if  you  want  to  know  —  I've  my  mouth  full 
of  it  still.  Why  did  you  ever  introduce  me  to  that 
girl?" 

"  Oh,  it 's  Noemie,  is  it  ?  Lord  deliver  us !  You 
don't  mean  to  say  you're  lovesick  about  her?" 

"Lovesick,  no;  it's  not  a  grand  passion.  But  the 
cold-blooded  little  demon  sticks  in  my  thoughts;  she 
has  bitten  me  with  those  even  little  teeth  of  hers; 
I  feel  as  if  I  might  turn  rabid  and  do  something 
crazy  in  consequence.  It's  very  low,  it's  disgustinglr 
low.  She's  the  most  mercenary  little  jade  in  Europe. 
Yet  she  really  affects  my  peace  of  mind;  she's  al- 
ways running  in  my  head.  It's  a  striking  and  a  vile 
contrast  to  your  noble  and  virtuous  attachment.  It's 
rather  pitiful  that  it  should  be  the  best  I'm  able  to 
do  for  myself  at  my  present  respectable  age.  I'm 

304. 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  nice  young  man,  eh,  en  somme?  You  can't  warrant 
my  future  as  you  do  your  own." 

"Drop  the  creature  right  here,"  said  Newman; 
"  don't  go  near  her  again,  and  your  future  will  be  all 
right.  Come  over  to  America  and  I  '11  get  you  a  place 
in  a  bank." 

"It's  easy  to  say  drop  her" —  Valentin  spoke 
with  a  certain  gravity  in  his  lucidity.  "You  might  as 
well  drop  a  pretty  panther  who  has  every  one  of  her 
claws  in  your  flesh  and  who's  in  the  act  of  biting 
your  heart  out.  One  has  to  keep  up  the  acquaintance, 
if  only  to  show  one  is  n't  afraid." 

"  You  've  better  things  to  keep  up,  it  seems  to  me, 
than  such  acquaintances.  Remember  too,"  Newman 
went  on,  "that  I  did  n't  want  to  introduce  you  to 
her;  you  insisted.  I  had  a  sort  of  creepy  feeling  about 
it  even  at  the  time." 

"Oh,  I  no  more  reproach  you  with  misleading 
my  innocence  than  I  reproach  myself  with  prac- 
tising on  hers.  She 's  really  extraordinary.  The  way 
she  has  already  spread  her  wings  is  amazing.  I 
don't  know  when  a  woman  has  amused  me  more. 
But  pardon  me,"  he  added  in  an  instant;  "she 
does  n't  amuse  you,  at  second-hand ;  your  interest 
appears,  to  flag  just  where  that  of  many  men  would 
wake  up.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else."  Valentin 
introduced  another  topic,  but  he  had  within  five 
minutes  reverted  by  a  bold  transition  to  Mademoiselle 
Nioche  and  was  throwing  off  pictures  of  her  "home" 
and  quoting  specimens  of  her  mots.  These  latter 
were  very  droll  and,  for  a  young  woman  who  six 
months  before  had  been  dabbling  in  sacred  subjects, 

3°5 


THE  AMERICAN 

remarkably  profane.  But  at  last,  abruptly,  he  stopped, 
became  thoughtful  and  for  some  time  afterwards 
said  nothing  When  he  rose  to  go  it  was  evident 
that  his  thoughts  were  still  running  on  his  rare  young 
friend.  "Yes,"  he  wound  up,  "she's  a  beautiful 
little  monster  I'* 


XVI 

THE  next  ten  days  were  to  be  the  happiest  Newman 
had  ever  known.  He  saw  Madame  de  Cintre  every 
day,  and  never  saw  either  her  mother  or  the  elder 
of  his  prospective  brothers-in-law.  The  woman  of 
his  choice  at  last  seemed  to  think  it  becoming  to 
apologise  for  their  never  being  present.  ;<  They 're 
much  taken  up,"  she  said,  "with  doing  the  honours 
of  Paris  to  Lord  Deepmere."  Her  gravity  as  she 
made  this  declaration  was  almost  prodigious,  and  it 
even  deepened  as  she  added:  "He's  our  seventh 
cousin,  you  know,  and  blood's  thicker  than  water. 
And  then  he's  so  interesting!"  And  with  this  she 
strangely  smiled. 

He  met  young  Madame  de  Bellegarde  two  or  three 
times,  always  roaming  about  with  graceful  vagueness 
and  as  if  in  search  of  an  unattainable  ideal  of  di- 
version. She  reminded  him  of  some  elegant  painted 
phial,  cracked  and  fragrantly  exhaling;  but  he  felt 
he  owed  indulgence  to  a  lady  who  on  her  side  owed 
submission  to  Urbain  de  Bellegarde.  He  pitied  that 
nobleman's  wife  the  more,  also,  that  she  was  a  silly, 
thirstily-smiling  little  brunette  with  a  suggestion  of 
the  unregulated  heart.  The  small  Marquise  some- 
times looked  at  him  with  an  intensity  too  marked 
not  to  be  innocent,  since  vicious  advances,  he  con- 
ceived, were  usually  much  less  direct.  She  apparently 
wanted  to  ask  him  something;  he  wondered  what 

307 


THE  AMERICAN 

it  might  be.  But  he  was  shy  of  giving  her  an  oppor- 
tunity, because,  if  her  communication  bore  upon  the 
aridity  of  her  matrimonial  lot,  he  was  at  a  loss  to  see 
how  he  could  help  her.  He  had  a  fancy,  however, 
of  her  coming  up  to  him  some  day  and  saying  (after 
looking  round  behind  her)  with  a  little  passionate 
hiss:  "I  know  you  detest  my  husband;  let  me  have 
the  pleasure  of  promising  you  that  you're  right. 
Pity  a  poor  woman  who 's  married  to  a  clock-image 
in  papier-mache!"  Possessing,  at  any  rate,  in  de- 
fault of  a  competent  knowledge  of  the  principles  of 
etiquette,  a  very  downright  sense  of  the  "meanness" 
of  certain  actions,  it  seemed  to  him  to  belong  to  his 
proper  position  to  keep  on  his  guard;  he  was  not 
going  to  put  it  into  the  power  of  these  people  to  say 
he  had  done  in  their  house  anything  not  absolutely 
straight.  As  it  was,  Madame  de  Bellegarde  used  to 
give  him  news  of  the  dress  she  meant  to  wear  at  his 
wedding,  and  which  had  not  yet,  in  her  creative 
imagination,  in  spite  of  many  interviews  with  the 
tailor,  resolved  itself  into  its  composite  totality.  "I 
told  you  pale  blue  bows  on  the  sleeves,  at  the  elbow," 
she  would  say.  "But  to-day  I  don't  see  my  blue 
bows  at  all.  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  them. 
To-day  I  see  pink  —  a  tender  sort  of  cuisse  de  nymphe 
pink.  And  then  I  pass  through  strange  desolate 
phases  in  which  neither  blue  nor  pink  says  anything 
to  me.  And  yet  I  must  have  the  bows." 

"Have  them  green  or  yellow,"  Newman  some- 
times suggested. 

"  Malheureux ! "  the  little  Marquise  would  then 
piercingly  cry.  "  I  hope  you  're  not  going  to  pretend 

308 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  dress  jour  wife.  Claire  's  an  angel,  yes,  but  her 
bows,  already,  are-— well,  quite  of  another  world!" 

Madame  de  Cintre  was  calmly  content  before 
society,  but  her  lover  had  the  felicity  of  feeling  that 
before  him,  when  society  was  absent,  her  sense  of 
security  overflowed.  She  said  charming  and  tender 
things.  "I  take  no  pleasure  in  you.  You  never  give 
me  a  chance  to  scold  you,  to  correct  you.  I  bargained 
for  that;  I  expected  to  enjoy  it.  But  you  won't  do 
anything  wrong  or  queer  or  dreadful,  and  yet  you 
won't  even  look  as  if  you  were  trying  to  do  right. 
You  're  easier  than  we  are,  you  're  easier  than  I  am, 
and  I  quite  see  that  you've  reasons,  of  some  sort, 
that  are  as  good  as  ours.  It 's  dull  for  me  therefore," 
she  smiled,  "and  it's  rather  disappointing,  not  to 
have  anything  to  show  you  or  to  tell  you  or  to  teach 
you,  anything  that  you  don't  seem  already  quite 
capable  of  knowing  and  doing  and  feeling.  What 's 
left  of  all  the  good  one  was  going  to  do  you  ?  It 's 
very  stupid,  there's  no  excitement  for  me;  I  might 
as  well  be  marrying  some  one  —  well,  some  one  not 
impossible." 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  as  impossible  as  I  know  how  to 
be,  and  that  it's  all  the  worst  I  can  do  in  the  time," 
Newman  would  say  in  answer  to  this.  "  Kindly  make 
the  best  of  any  inconvenience."  He  assured  her  that 
he  would  never  visit  on  her  any  sense  of  her  own 
deficiencies;  he  would  treat  her  at  least  as  if  she  were 
perfectly  satisfactory.  "Oh,"  he  then  broke  out,  "if 
you  only  knew  how  exactly  you're  what  I  coveted! 
I'm  beginning  to  understand  why  I  wanted  it;  the 
having  it  makes  all  the  difference  that  I  expected. 

309 


THE  AMERICAN 

Never  was  a  man  so  pleased  with  his  good  fortune. 
You've  been  holding  your  head  for  a  week  past  just 
as  I  wanted  my  wife  to  hold  hers.  You  say  just 
the  things  I  want  her  to  say.  You  walk  about  the 
room  just  as  I  want  her  to  walk.  You've  just 
the  taste  in  dress  I  want  her  to  have.  In  short  you 
come  up  to  the  mark,  and,  I  can  tell  you,  my  mark 
was  high." 

These  assurances  tended  to  make  his  friend  more 
grave.  At  last  she  said:  "Depend  on  it  I  don't 
come  up  to  the  mark  at  all;  your  mark's  much  too 
high.  I'm  not  all  you  suppose;  I'm  a  much  smaller 
affair.  She's  a  magnificent  person,  the  person  you 
imagine.  Pray  how  did  she  come  to  such  perfection  ? " 

"She  was  never  anything  but  perfection,"  New- 
man replied. 

"I  really  believe,"  his  companion  went  on,  "that 
she 's  better  than  any  fond  flight  of  my  own  ambition. 
Do  you  know  that 's  a  very  handsome  compliment  ? 
Well,  sir,  I  '11  make  her  my  ambition ! " 

Mrs.  Tristram  came  to  see  her  dear  Claire  after 
Newman  had  announced  his  engagement,  and  she 
observed  to  our  hero  the  next  day  that  his  fortune 
was  simply  absurd.  "For  the  ridiculous  part  of  it  is 
that  you  're  evidently  going  to  be  as  happy  as  if  you 
were  marrying  Miss  Smith  or  Miss  Brown.  I  call 
it  a  brilliant  match  for  you,  but  you  get  brilliancy 
without  paying  any  tax  on  it.  Those  things  are  usually 
a  compromise,  but  here  you've  everything,  and 
nothing  crowds  anything  else  out.  You'll  be  bril- 
liantly happy  —  with  the  rest  of  the  brilliancy.  I 
consider  really  that  I've  done  it  for  you,  but  it's 

310 


THE  AMERICAN 

almost  more  than  I  can  myself  bear."  Newman 
thanked  her  for  her  pleasant  encouraging  way  of 
saying  things;  no  woman  could  encourage  or  dis- 
courage better.  Tristram's  way  was  different;  he  had 
been  taken  by  his  wife  to  call  on  Madame  de  Cintre 
and  he  gave  an  account  of  the  expedition. 

"You  don't  catch  me  risking  a  personal  estimate 
this  time,  I  guess,  do  you  ?  I  put  my  foot  in  it  for  you 
once.  That 's  a  jolly  underhand  thing  to  do,  by  the 
way  —  coming  round  to  sound  a  fellow  on  the  wo- 
man you're  going  to  marry.  You  deserve  anything 
you  get.  Then  of  course  you  rush  and  tell  her,  and 
she  takes  care  to  make  it  pleasant  for  the  spiteful 
wretch  the  first  time  he  calls.  I'll  do  you  the  justice 
to  say,  however,  that  you  don't  seem  to  have  told 
your  present  friend  —  or  if  you  did  she  let  me  down 
easy.  She  was  very  nice;  she  was  tremendously 
polite.  She  and  Lizzie  sat  on  the  sofa  pressing  each 
other's  hands  and  calling  each  other  chere  belle,  and 
Madame  de  Cintre  sent  me  every  third  word  a  mag- 
nificent smile,  as  if  to  give  me  to  understand  that 
I  too  was  a  beauty  and  a  darling.  She  made  up  for 
past  neglect,  I  assure  you;  she  was  very  pleasant 
and  sociable.  Only  in  an  evil  hour  it  came  into  her 
head  to  say  that  she  must  present  us  to  her  mother 
—  her  mother  wished  to  know  any  good  friends  of 
yours.  I  did  n't  want  to  know  her  mother,  and  I  was 
on  the  point  of  telling  Lizzie  to  go  in  alone  and  let 
me  wait  for  her  outside.  But  Lizzie,  with  her  usual 
infernal  ingenuity,  guessed  my  purpose  and  looked 
me  into  obedience.  So  they  marched  off  arm-in-arm 
and  I  followed  as  I  could.  We  found  the  old  lady 

3" 


THE  AMERICAN 

in  her  armchair  twiddling  her  aristocratic  thumbs. 
She  eyed  Lizzie  hard,  from  head  to  foot;  but  at  that 
game  Lizzie,  to  do  her  justice,  was  a  match  for  her. 
My  wife  told  her  we  were  great  friends  of  Mr.  New- 
man. The  Marquise  stared  a  moment  and  then  said : 
*  Oh,  Mr.  Newman  ?  My  daughter  has  made  up  her 
mind  to  marry  a  Mr.  Newman.'  Then  Madame  de 
Cintre  began  to  fondle  Lizzie  again  and  said  it  was 
this  dear  lady  who  had  had  the  idea  and  brought 
them  together.  *  Oh,  it 's  you  I  have  to  thank  for  my 
American  son-in-law  ? '  Madame  de  Bellegarde  said 
to  Mrs.  Tristram.  *  It  was  a  very  clever  thought  of 
yours.  Be  sure  of  my  high  appreciation/  With 
which  she  began  to  look  at  me  too,  and  presently 
said:  'Pray,  are  you  engaged  in  some  species  of 
manufacture  ? '  I  wanted  to  say  that  I  manufactured 
broomsticks  for  old  witches  to  ride  on,  but  Lizzie 
got  in  ahead  of  me.  '  My  husband,  madame  la  Mar- 
quise, belongs  to  that  unfortunate  class  of  persons  who 
have  no  profession  and  no  occupation,  and  who 
thereby  do  very  little  good  in  the  world/  To  get  her 
poke  at  the  old  woman  she  did  n't  care  where  she 
shoved  me.  'Dear  me,'  said  the  Marquise,  'we  all 
have  our  duties/  'I'm  sorry  mine  compel  me  to 
take  leave  of  you,'  said  Lizzie.  And  we  bundled  out 
again.  But  you  have  a  mother-in-law  in  all  the  force 
of  the  time-honoured  term." 

"Oh,"  Newman  made  answer,  "my  mother-in-law 
desires  nothing  better  than  to  let  me  alone!" 

Betimes,  on  the  evening  of  the  twenty-seventh,  he 
went  to  Madame  de  Bellegarde's  ball.  The  old  house 
in  the  Rue  de  I'Umversite  shone  strangely  in  his  eyes, 

312 


THE  AMERICAN 

In  the  circle  of  light  projected  from  the  outer  gate 
?  detachment  of  the  populace  stood  watching  the  car- 
riages roll  in;  the  court  was  illumined  with  flaring 
torches  and  the  portico  draped  and  carpeted.  When 
Newman  arrived  there  were  but  few  persons  present. 
The  Marquise  and  her  two  daughters  were  on  the  top 
landing  of  the  staircase,  where  the  ancient  marble 
nymph  peeped  out  from  a  bower  of  plants.  Madame 
de  Bellegarde,  in  purple  and  pearls  and  fine  lacesv 
resembled  some  historic  figure  painted  by  Vandyke; 
she  made  her  daughter,  in  comparative  vaguenesses 
of  white,  splendid  and  pale,  seem,  for  his  joy  of 
possession,  infinitely  modern  and  near.  His  hostess 
greeted  him  with  a  fine  hard  urbanity  and,  looking 
round,  called  to  several  of  the  persons  standing  at 
hand.  They  were  elderly  gentlemen  with  faces  as 
marked  and  featured  and  filled-in,  for  some  science 
of  social  topography,  as,  to  Newman's  whimsical 
sense,  any  of  the  little  towered  and  battered  old 
towns,  on  high  eminences,  that  his  tour  of  several 
countries  during  the  previous  summer  had  shown 
him;  they  were  adorned  with  strange  insignia,  cor- 
dons and  ribbons  and  orders,  as  if  the  old  cities  were 
flying  flags  and  streamers  and  hanging  out  shields 
for  a  celebration,  and  they  approached  with  meas- 
ured alertness  while  the  Marquise  presented  them 
the  good  friend  of  the  family  who  was  to  marry  her 
daughter.  The  good  friend  heard  a  confused  enum- 
eration of  titles  and  names  that  matched,  to  his 
fancy,  the  rest  of  the  paraphernalia;  the  gentlemen 
bowed  and  smiled  and  murmured  without  reserve, 
and  he  indulged  in  a  series  of  impartial  hand-shakes, 

313 


THE  AMERICAN 

accompanied  in  each  case  by  a  "Very  happy  to  meet 
you,  sir."  He  looked  at  Madame  de  Cintre,  but  her 
attention  was  absent.  If  his  personal  self-conscious- 
ness had  been  of  a  nature  to  make  him  constantly 
refer  to  her  as  to  the  critic  before  whom  in  company 
he  played  his  part,  he  might  have  found  it  a  flattering 
proof  of  her  confidence  that  he  never  caught  her  eyes 
resting  on  him.  It  is  a  reflexion  he  did  n't  make,  but 
we  may  nevertheless  risk  it,  that  in  spite  of  this  cir- 
cumstance she  probably  saw  every  movement  of  his 
little  finger.  The  Marquise  Urbain  was  wondrously 
dressed  in  crimson  crape  bestrewn  with  huge  silvei 
moons  —  full  discs  and  fine  crescents,  half  the  fea- 
tures of  the  firmament. 

"You  don't  say  anything  about  my  toilette,"  she 
impatiently  observed  to  him. 

"Well,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  looking  at  you  through 
a  telescope.  You  put  me  in  mind  of  some  lurid  comet, 
something  grand  and  wild." 

"Ah,  if  I'm  grand  and  wild  I  match' the  occasion! 
But  I'm  not  a  heavenly  body." 

"I  never  saw  the  sky  at  midnight  that  particular 
shade  of  crimson,"  Newman  said. 

"That's  just  my  originality:  any  fool  could  have 
chosen  blue.  My  sister-in-law  would  have  chosen  a 
lovely  shade  of  that  colour,  with  a  dozen  little  delicate 
moons.  But  I  think  crimson  much  more  amusing. 
And  I  give  my  idea,  which  is  moonshine." 

"Moonshine  and  bloodshed,"  said  Newman. 

"A  murder  by  moonlight,"  the  young  woman 
laughed.  "What  a  delicious  idea  for  a  toilet!  To 
make  it  complete  there  's  a  dagger  of  diamonds,  you 

3H 


THE  AMERICAN 

see.  stuck  into  my  hair.  But  here  comes  Lord  Deep* 
mere,"  she  added  in  a  moment;  "I  must  find  out 
what  he  thinks  of  it."  Lord  Deepmere  came  up  very 
red  in  the  face  and  very  light,  apparently,  at  heart; 
at  once  very  much  amused  and  very  little  committed. 
"My  Lord  Deepmere  can't  decide  which  he  prefers, 
my  sister-in-law  or  me,"  Madame  Urbain  went  on. 
"He  likes  Claire  because  she's  his  cousin,  and  me 
because  I  'm  not.  But  he  has  no  right  to  make  love 
to  Claire,  whereas  I  'm  perfectly  disponible.  It 's  very 
wrong  to  make  love  to  a  woman  who's  engaged,  but 
it 's  very  wrong  not  to  make  love  to  a  woman  who 's 
married." 

.  "Oh,  it's  very  jolly  making  love  to  married  wo- 
men," the  young  man  said,  "  because  they  can't  ask 
you  to  marry  them." 

"  Is  that  what  the  others  do  —  the   spinsters  ? " 
Newman  enquired. 

"  Oh  dear,  yes  —  in  England  all  the  girls  ask  a 
fellow  to  marry  them." 

"And  a  fellow  brutally  refuses,"  Madame  Urbain 
commented. 

"Why,  really,  you  know,  a  fellow  can't  marry  any 
girl  that  asks  him,"  said  his  lordship. 

"Your  cousin  won't  ask  you.      She's  going  to 
marry  Mr.  Newman." 

"Oh,  that's  a  very  different  thing!"  Lord  Deep- 
mere  readily  agreed. 

"  You  'd  have  accepted  her,  I  suppose.  That  makes 
me  hope  that,  after  all,  you  prefer  me." 

"Oh,  when  things  are  nice  I  never  prefer  one  to 
the  other,"  said  the  young  man.    "I  take  them  all." 

3*5 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Ah,  what  a  horror!  I  won't  be  taken  in  that  way, 
especially  as  a '  thing,' "  cried  his  interlocutress.  "  Mr. 
Newman  's  much  better;  he  knows  how  to  choose. 
Oh,  he  chooses  as  if  he  were  threading  a  needle.  He 
prefers  the  Comtesse  to  any  rival  attraction,  however 
brilliant." 

"Well,  you  can't  help  my  being  her  cousin,"  said 
Lord  Deepmere  to  Newman  with  candid  hilarity. 

'*  Oh  no,  I  can't  help  that,"  Newman  laughed  back. 
"Neither  can  she!" 

"And  you  can't  help  my  dancing  with  her,"  said 
Lord  Deepmere  with  sturdy  simplicity. 

"I  could  prevent  that  only  by  dancing  with  her 
myself,"  Newman  returned.  "But  unfortunately  I 
don't  know  how  to  dance." 

"Oh,  you  may  dance  without  knowing  how;  may 
you  not,  milord?"  Madame  Urbain  asked.  But  to 
this  Lord  Deepmere  replied  that  a  fellow  ought  to 
know  how  to  dance  if  he  did  n't  want  to  make  an  ass 
of  himself;  and  at  this  same  moment  the  Marquis 
joined  the  group,  slow-stepping  and  with  his  hands 
behind  him. 

"This  is  a  very  splendid  entertainment,"  Newman 
cheerfully  observed.  "The  old  house  looks  very 
pleasant  and  bright." 

"  If  you  're  pleased  we  're  content."  And  the  Mar- 
quis lifted  his  shoulders  and  bent  them  forward. 

"Oh,  I  suspect  every  one's  pleased,"  said  New- 
man. "How  can  they  help  being  pleased  when  the 
first  thing  they  see  as  they  come  in  is  your  sister 
standing  there  as  beautiful  as  an  angel  of  light  and 
of  charity?" 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Yes,  she's  very  beautiful,"  the  Marquis  a  little 
distantly  admitted.  "But  that's  not  so  great  a  source 
of  satisfaction  to  other  people,  naturally,  as  to  you." 

"Well,  I  am  satisfied  and  suited,  Marquis  — 
there 's  no  doubt  but  what  I  am"  said  Newman  with 
his  protracted  enunciation.  "And  now  tell  me," 
he  added,  taking  in  more  of  the  scene,  "who  some 
of  these  pleasant  folks  are." 

M.  de  Bellegarde  looked  about  him  in  silence, 
with  his  head  bent  and  his  hand  raised  to  his  lower 
lip,  which  he  slowly  rubbed.  A  stream  of  people  had 
been  pouring  into  the  salon  in  which  Newman  ctood 
with  his  host,  the  rooms  were  filling  up  and  the  place, 
all  light  and  colour  and  fine  resonance,  looked  rich 
and  congressional.  It  borrowed  its  splendour  largely 
from  the  shining  shoulders  and  profuse  jewels  of  the 
women,  and  from  the  rest  of  their  festal  array.  There 
were  uniforms,  but  not  many,  as  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde's  door  was  inexorably  closed  against  the  mere 
myrmidons  of  the  upstart  power  which  then  flour- 
ished on  the  soil  of  France,  and  the  great  company 
of  smiling  and  chattering  faces  was  not,  as  to  line 
and  feature,  a  collection  of  gold  or  silver  medals.  It 
was  a  pity  for  our  friend,  nevertheless,  that  he  had 
not  been  a  physiognomist,  for  these  mobile  masks, 
much  more  a  matter  of  wax  than  of  bronze,  were 
the  picture  of  a  world  and  the  vivid  translation,  as 
might  have  seemed  to  him,  of  a  text  that  had  had 
otherwise  its  obscurities.  If  the  occasion  had  been 
different  they  would  hardly  have  pleased  him;  he 
would  have  found  in  the  women  too  little  beauty  and 
in  the  men  too  many  smirks;  but  he  was  now  in  a 

317 


THE  AMERICAN 

humour  to  receive  none  but  fair  impressions,  and  it 
sufficed  him  to  note  that  every  one  was  charged  with 
some  vivacity  or  some  solemnity  and  to  feel  that  the 
whole  great  sum  of  character  and  confidence  was 
part  of  his  credit.  "  I  '11  present  you  to  some  people," 
said  M.  de  Bellegarde  after  a  while.  "I'll  make  a 
point  of  it  in  fact.  You  '11  allow  me  ?  —  if  I  may 
exercise  my  judgement." 

"Oh,  I'll  shake  hands  with  any  one  you  want," 
Newman  returned.  "Your  mother  just  introduced 
me  to  half  a  dozen  old  gentlemen.  Take  care  you 
don't  pick  out  the  same  parties  again." 

"Who  are  the  gentlemen  to  whom  my  mother 
presented  you  ? " 

"Upon  my  word  I  forget  them,"  Newman  had  to 
confess.  "I'm  afraid  I've  got  them  rather  mixed; 
and  don't  all  Chinamen  —  even  great  mandarins ' 
—  look  very  much  the  same  to  Occidentals  ? " 

"I  suspect  they've  not  forgotten  you,"  said  the 
Marquis;  and  he  began  to  walk  through  the  rooms. 
Newman,  to  keep  near  him  in  the  crowd,  took  his 
arm;  after  which,  for  some  time,  the  Marquis 
walked  straight  on  in  silence.  At  last,  reaching  the 
further  end  of  the  apartments,  Newman  found  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  a  lady  of  monstrous  pro- 
portions seated  in  a  very  capacious  armchair  and 
with  several  persons  standing  in  a  semicircle  round 
her.  This  little  group  had  divided  as  the  Marquis 
came  up,  and  he  stepped  forward  and  stood  for  an 
instant  silent  and  obsequious,  his  flattened  hat  raised 
to  his  lips  as  Newman  had  seen  gentlemen  stand  in 
churches  as  soon  as  they  entered  their  pews.  The  lady 

318 


THE  AMERICAN 

indeed  bore  a  very  fair  likeness  to  a  revered  effigy  in 
some  idolatrous  shrine.  She  was  monumentally 
stout  and  imperturbably  serene.  Her  aspect  was  to 
Newman  almost  formidable;  he  had  a  troubled 
consciousness  of  a  triple  chin,  a  pair  of  eyes  that 
twinkled  in  her  face  like  a  pair  of  polished  pin-heads 
in  a  cushion,  a  vast  expanse  of  uncovered  bosom,  a 
nodding  and  twinkling  tiara  of  plumes  and  gems, 
an  immense  circumference  of  satin  petticoat.  With 
her  little  circle  of  beholders  this  remarkable  woman 
reminded  him  of  the  Fat  Lady  at  a  fair.  She  fixed 
her  small  unwinking  gaze  at  the  newcomers. 

"Dear  Duchess,"  said  the  Marquis,  "let  me  pre- 
sent you  our  good  friend  Mr.  Newman,  of  whom 
you  Ve  heard  us  speak.  Wishing  to  make  Mr.  New- 
man known  to  those  who  are  dear  to  us,  I  could  n't 
possibly  fail  to  begin  with  you." 

"Charmed,  dear  friend;  charmed,  monsieur," 
said  the  Duchess  in  a  voice  which,  though  small  and 
shrill,  was  not  disagreeable,  while  Newman  per- 
formed with  all  his  length  his  liberal  obeisance.  He 
always  made  his  bow,  as  he  wrote  his  name,  very 
distinctly.  "I  came  on  purpose  to  see  monsieur.  I 
hope  he  appreciates  the  compliment.  You've  only 
to  look  at  me  to  do  so,  sir,"  she  continued,  sweeping 
her  person  with  a  much-encompassing  glance.  New- 
man hardly  knew  what  to  say,  though  it  seemed 
that  to  a  duchess  who  joked  about  her  corpulence 
one  might  say  almost  anything.  On  hearing  she 
had  come  on  purpose  to  see  this  object  of  interest  the 
gentlemen  who  surrounded  her  turned  a  little  and 
looked  at  him  with  grave,  with  almost  overdone 


THE  AMERICAN 

consideration.  The  Marquis,  with  supernatural 
gravity,  mentioned  to  him  the  name  of  each,  while 
the  gentleman  who  bore  it  bowed;  and  these  pro- 
nouncements again  affected  Newman  as  some  enum- 
eration of  the  titles  of  books,  of  the  performers  on 
playbills,  of  the  items  of  indexes.  "I  wanted  ex- 
tremely to  see  you,"  the  Duchess  went  on.  "C'est 
positif.  In  the  first  place  I  'm  very  fond  of  the  person 
you're  going  to  marry;  she's  the  most  charming 
creature  in  France.  Mind  you  treat  her  well  or  you  '11 
have  news  of  me.  But  vous  avez  Fair  bien  honnete, 
and  I'm  told  you're  very  remarkable.  I've  heard 
all  sorts  of  extraordinary  things  about  you.  Foyons,, 
are  they  true  ? " 

"I  don't  know  what  you  can  have  heard,"  New- 
man promptly  pleaded. 

"Oh,  you've  had  your  legende.  You've  had  a 
career  the  most  chequered,  the  most  bizarre.  What's 
that  about  your  having  founded  a  city  some  ten 
years  ago  in  the  great  West,  a  city  which  contains 
to-day  half  a  million  of  inhabitants  ?  Is  n't  it  half  a 
million,  messieurs?  You're  exclusive  proprietor  of 
the  wonderful  place  and  are  consequently  fabu- 
lously rich,  and  you'd  be  richer  still  if  you  didn't 
grant  lands  and  houses  free  of  rent  to  all  newcomers 
who  '11  pledge  themselves  never  to  smoke  cigars.  At 
this  game,  in  three  years,  we're  told,  you're  going 
to  become  President  of  all  the  Americas." 

The  Duchess  recited  this  quaint  fable  with  a 
smooth  self-possession  which  gave  it  to  Newman's 
ear  the  sound  of  an  amusing  passage  in  a  play  inter- 
preted by  a  veteran  comic  actress.  Before  she  had 

320 


THE  AMERICAN 

ceased  speaking  he  had  relieved  himself,  applausively, 
by  laughter  as  frank  as  clapping  or  stamping.  "Dear 
Duchess,  dear  Duchess!"  the  Marquis  began  to 
murmur  soothingly.  Two  or  three  persons  came 
to  the  door  of  the  room  to  see  who  was  laughing  at 
the  Duchess.  But  the  lady  continued  with  the  soft, 
serene  assurance  of  a  person  who,  as  a  great  lady, 
was  certain  of  being  listened  to,  and,  as  a  garrulous 
woman,  was  independent  of  the  pulse  of  her  auditors. 
"But  I  know  you're  very  remarkable.  You  must 
be,  to  have  endeared  yourself  to  our  good  Urbain  and 
to  his  admirable  mother.  They  don't  scatter  their 
approval  about.  They're  very  exacting.  I  myself 
am  not  very  sure  at  this  hour  of  really  enjoying  their 
esteem — eh,  Marquis?  But  your  real  triumph, 
cher  monsieur,  is  in  pleasing  the  Comtesse;  she's 
as  difficult  as  a  princess  in  a  fairy-tale.  Your  suc- 
cess is  a  miracle.  What 's  your  secret  ?  I  don't  ask 
you  to  reveal  it  before  all  these  gentlemen,  but  you 
must  come  and  see  me  some  day  and  show  me  how 
you  proceed." 

"The  secret  is  with  Madame  de  Cintre,"  New- 
man found  a  face  to  answer.  "  You  must  ask  her  for 
it.  It  consists  in  her  having  a  great  deal  of  charity." 

"Very  pretty!"  the  Duchess  pronounced.  "That, 
to  begin  with,  is  a  nice  specimen  of  your  system. 
What,  Marquis,  are  you  already  taking  monsieur 
away?" 

"I've  a  duty  to  perform,  dear  friend,"  said  Urbain, 
pointing  to  the  other  groups. 

"Ah,  for  you  1  know  what  that  means!  Well, 
I  've  seen  monsieur ;  that 's  what  I  wanted.  He  can't 


THE  AMERICAN 

persuade  me  he  has  n't  something  wonder-working. 
Au  revoir,  monsieur." 

As  Newman  passed  on  with  his  host  he  asked  who 
the  Duchess  might  be.  "  The  greatest  lady  in  France ! " 
the  Marquis  hereupon  reservedly  replied.  He  then 
presented  his  prospective  brother-in-law  to  some 
twenty  other  persons  of  both  sexes,  selected  appar- 
ently for  some  recognised  value  of  name  or  fame  or 
attitude.  In  some  cases  their  honours  were  written  in 
a  good  round  hand  on  the  countenance  of  the  wearer; 
in  others  Newman  was  thankful  for  such  help  as  his 
companion's  impressively  brief  intimation,  measured 
as  to  his  scant  capacity,  contributed  to  the  discovery 
of  them.  There  were  large,  heavy  imperturbable 
gentlemen  and  small  insinuating  extravagant  ones: 
there  were  ugly  ladies  in  yellow  lace  and  quaint 
jewels,  and  pretty  ladies  with  reaches  of  white  de- 
nudation that  even  their  wealth  of  precious  stones 
scarce  availed  to  overtake.  Every  one  gave  Newman 
extreme  attention,  every  one  lighted  up  for  him  re- 
gardless, as  he  would  have  said,  of  expense,  every  one 
was  enchanted  to  make  his  acquaintance,  every 
one  looked  at  him  with  that  fraudulent  intensity  of 
good  society  which  puts  out  its  bountiful  hand  but 
keeps  the  ringers  closed  over  the  coin.  If  the  Marquis 
was  going  about  as  a  bear-leader,  if  the  fiction  of 
Beauty  and  the  Beast  was  supposed  to  show  thus  its 
companion-piece,  the  general  impression  appeared 
that  the  bear  was  a  very  fair  imitation  of  humanity. 
Newman  found  his  reception  in  the  charmed  circle 
very  handsome  —  he  liked,  handsomely,  himself,  not 
to  say  less  than  that  for  it.  It  was  handsome  to  be 

322 


THE  AMERICAN 

treated  with  so  much  explicit  politeness;  it  was 
handsome  to  meet  civilities  as  pointed  as  witticisms, 
and  to  hear  them  so  syllabled  and  articulated  that 
they  suggested  handfuls  of  crisp  counted  notes 
pushed  over  by  a  banker's  clerk;  it  was  handsome  of 
clever  Frenchwomen  —  they  all  seemed  clever  —  to 
turn  their  backs  to  their  partners  for  a  good  look 
at  the  slightly  gaunt  outsider  whom  Claire  de  Cintre 
was  to  marry,  and  then  shine  on  the  subject  as  if  they 
quite  understood.  At  last  as  he  turned  away  from 
a  battery  of  vivid  grimaces  and  other  amenities, 
Newman  caught  the  eye  of  the  Marquis  fixed  on 
him  inscrutably,  and  thereupon,  for  a  single  instant, 
he  checked  himself.  "Am  I  behaving  like  a  blamed 
fool?"  he  wondered.  "Am  I  stepping  about  like  a 
terrier  on  his  hind  legs  ? "  At  this  moment  he  per- 
ceived Mrs.  Tristram  at  the  other  side  of  the  room 
and  waved  his  hand  in  farewell  to  M.  de  Bellegarde 
in  order  to  make  his  way  toward  her. 

"Am  I  holding  my  head  too  high  and  opening 
my  mouth  too  wide  ?"  he  demanded.  *'Do  I  look  as 
if  they  were  saying  'Catch'  and  I  were  snapping 
down  what  they  throw  me  and  licking  my  lips  ? " 

"  You  look  like  all  very  successful  men  —  fatuous 
without  knowing  it.  Women  triumph  with  more 
tact,  just  as  they  suffer  with  more  grace.  Therefore 
it 's  the  usual  thing  for  such  situations  —  neither 
better  nor  worse.  I've  been  watching  you  for  the 
last  ten  minutes,  and  I've  been  watching  M.  de 
Bellegarde.  He  does  n't  like  what  he  has  to  do." 

"The  more  credit  to  him  for  putting  it  through," 
Newman  returned.  "But  I  shall  be  generous.  I 

323 


THE  AMERICAN 

' 

shan't  trouble  him  any  more.  Only  I  'm  very  happy. 
I  can't  stand  still  here.  Please  take  my  arm  and 
we'll  go  for  a  walk." 

He  led  Mrs.  Tristram  from  one  room  to  another, 
where,  scattering  wide  glances  and  soft,  sharp  com- 
ments, she  reminded  him  of  the  pausing  wayfarer 
who  studies  the  contents  of  the  confectioner's  win- 
dow, with  platonic  discriminations,  through  a  firm 
plate  of  glass.  But  he  made  vague  answers;  he 
scarcely  heard  her;  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 
They  were  lost  in  the  vastness  of  this  attested  truth 
of  his  having  come  out  where  he  wanted.  His  mo- 
mentary consciousness  of  perhaps  too  broad  a  grin 
passed  away,  and  he  felt,  the  next  thing,  almost 
solemnly  quiet.  Yes,  he  had  "got  there,"  and  now 
it  was,  ail-powerfully,  to  stay.  These  prodigies  of 
gain  were  in  a  general  way  familiar  to  him,  but  the 
sense  of  what  he  had  "  made  "  by  an  anxious  opera- 
tion had  never  been  so  deep  and  sweet.  The  lights, 
the  flowers,  the  music,  the  "associations,"  vague 
and  confused  to  him,  yet  hovering  like  some  odour 
of  dried  spices,  something  far-away  and,  as  he  had 
hinted  to  the  Marquis,  Mongolian;  the  splendid 
women,  the  splendid  jewels,  the  strangeness  even  of 
the  universal  sense  of  a  tongue  that  seemed  the 
language  of  society  as  Italian  was  the  language  of 
opera:  these  things  were  all  a  gage  of  his  having 
worked,  from  the  old  first  years,  under  some  better 
star  than  he  knew.  Yet  if  he  showed  again  and  again 
so  many  of  his  fine  strong  teeth,  it  was  not  tickled 
vanity  that  pulled  the  exhibition-string:  he  had  no 
wish  to  be  pointed  at  with  the  finger  or  to  be  con- 


THE  AMERICAN 

sidered  by  these  people  for  himself.  If  he  could  have 
looked  down  at  the  scene  invisibly,  as  from  a  hole  in 
the  roof,  he  would  have  enjoyed  it  quite  as  much. 
It  would  have  spoken  to  him  of  his  energy  and 
prosperity  and  deepened  that  view  of  his  effective 
"handling"  of  life  to  which,  sooner  or  later,  he 
made  all  experience  contribute.  Just  now  the  cup 
seemed  full. 

"It's  all  very  fine  and  very  funny,  I  mean  very 
special  and  quite  thrilling  and  almost  interesting," 
said  Mrs.  Tristram  while  they  circulated.  "I've 
seen  nothing  objectionable  except  my  husband  lean- 
ing against  that  adorably  faded  strawberry  damask 
of  the  other  room  and  talking  to  an  individual  whom 
I  suppose  he  takes  for  a  prince,  but  whom  I  more 
than  suspect  to  be  the  functionary  taking  care  of  the 
lamps.  Do  you  think  you  could  separate  them  ?  Do 
knock  over  a  lamp!" 

I  doubt  whether  Newman,  who  saw  no  harm  in 
Tristram's  conversing  with  an  ingenious  mechanic, 
would  have  complied  with  this  request;  but  at  this 
moment  Valentin  de  Bellegarde  drew  near.  Newman, 
some  weeks  previously,  had  presented  Madame  de 
Cintre's  youngest  brother  to  Mrs.  Tristram,  for 
whose  rather  shy  and  subtle  merit  the  young  man 
promptly  professed  an  intelligent  relish  and  to  whom 
he  had  paid  several  visits. 

"Did  you  ever  read,"  she  asked,  "Keats's  'Belle 
Dame  sans  Merci '  ?  You  remind  me  of  the  hero  of 
the  ballad: 

" '  Oh,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? '  " 

325 


THE  AMERICAN 

"If  I'm  alone  it's  because  I've  been  deprived 
of  your  society,"  Valentin  returned.  "Besides,  it's 
good  manners  for  no  man  except  Newman  to  look 
happy.  This  is  all  to  his  address.  It's  not  for  you 
and  me  to  go  before  the  curtain." 

"You  prophesied  to  me  last  spring,"  said  New- 
man to  Mrs.  Tristram,  "that  six  months  from  that 
time  I  should  get  into  a  tearing  rage.  It  seems  to  me 
the  time  's  up,  and  yet  the  nearest  I  can  now  come  to 
doing  anything  rough  is  to  offer  you  a  cafe  glace." 

"I  promised  you  we  should  do  things  grandly," 
Valentin  observed.  "I  don't  allude  to  the  cafes 
glaces.  But  every  one's  here,  and  my  sister  told  me 
just  now  that  Urbain  has  been  adorable." 

"He's  a  real  nice  man  —  all  the  way  through.  If 
I  don't  look  out,"  Newman  went  on  —  "or  if  he 
does  n't  —  I  shall  begin  to  love  him  as  a  brother. 
That  reminds  me  that  I  ought  to  go  and  say  some- 
thing enthusiastic  to  your  mother." 

"Let  it  be  something  very  enthusiastic  indeed," 
said  Valentin.  "It  may  be  the  last  time  you'll  feel 
so  much  in  the  vein." 

Newman  walked  away  almost  disposed  to  clasp 
Madame  de  Bellegarde  round  the  waist.  He  passed 
through  several  rooms  and  at  last  found  her  in  the 
first  saloon,  seated  on  a  sofa  with  her  young  kins- 
man Lord  Deepmere  beside  her.  The  young  man 
unmistakeably  felt  the  strain;  his  hands  were  thrust 
into  his  pockets  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  toes  of  his 
shoes,  his  feet  being  thrust  out  in  front  of  him.  His 
hostess  appeared  to  have  been  addressing  him  with 
some  intensity  and  to  be  now  waiting  for  an  answer 

320 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  what  she  had  said  or  for  some  other  sign  of  the 
effect  of  her  words.  Her  hands  were  folded  in  her 
lap  and  she  considered  his  lordship's  simple  physi- 
ognomy as  she  might  have  studied  some  brief  but 
baffling  sentence  in  an  obscure  text.  He  looked  up  as 
Newman  approached,  met  his  eyes  and  changed 
colour.  On  which  the  latter  said :  "I'm  afraid  I  dis- 
turb an  interesting  interview." 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  rose,  and,  her  companion 
rising  at  the  same  time,  she  put  her  hand  into  his 
arm.  She  answered  nothing  for  an  instant,  and  then 
as  he  remained  silent  brought  out  with  a  smile:  "It 
would  be  amiable  for  Lord  Deepmere  to  say  it  was 
very  interesting." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  amiable!"  cried  his  lordship.  "But 
it  was  all  right." 

"Madame  de  Bellegarde  was  giving  you  some 
good  advice,  eh  ?"  Newman  asked:  " preaching  you, 
with  her  high  authority,  the  way  you  should  go  ?  In 
your  place  I'd  go  it  then  —  blind!" 

"  I  was  giving  him  some  excellent  advice,"  said  the 
Marquise,  fixing  her  fresh  cold  eyes  on  our  hero. 
"It's  for  him  to  take  it." 

"Take  it,  sir,  take  it!"  Newman  exclaimed.  "Any 
advice  she  gives  you  to-night  must  be  good;  for  to- 
night, Marquise,  you  must  speak  from  a  cheerful, 
comfortable  spirit,  and  that  makes  for  good  ideas. 
You  see  everything  going  on  so  brightly  and  success- 
fully round  you.  Your  party's  magnificent;  it  was 
*  very  happy  thought.  It 's  a  much  better  show  than 
flhat  feeble  effort  of  mine  would  have  been." 

"  If  you  're  pleased  I  'm  satisfied,"  she  answered 

327 


THE  AMERICAN 

with  rare  accommodation.  "My  desire  was  to  please 
you." 

"  Do  you  want  to  please  me  a  little  more  then  ? " 
Newman  went  on.  "Just  let  Lord  Deepmere  digest 
your  wisdom  and  take  care  of  himself  a  little;  and 
then  take  my  arm  and  walk  through  the  rooms." 

"My  desire  was  to  please  you,"  the  Marquise 
rather  stiffly  repeated;  and  as  she  liberated  her  com- 
panion our  friend  wondered  at  her  docility.  "If  this 
young  man  is  wise,"  she  added,  "he'll  go  and  find 
my  daughter  and  ask  her  to  dance." 

"I've  been  endorsing  your  advice,"  said  Newman, 
bending  over  her  and  laughing;  "I  suppose  there- 
fore I  must  let  him  cut  in  where  I  can  neither  lead 
nor  follow." 

Lord  Deepmere  wiped  his  forehead  and  departed, 
and  Madame  de  Bellegarde  took  Newman's  arm. 
"Yes,  it  has  been  a  real  friendly,  hearty,  jolly  idea," 
he  declared  as  they  proceeded  on  their  circuit.  "  Every 
one  seems  to  know  every  one  and  to  be  glad  to  see 
every  one.  The  Marquis  has  made  me  acquainted 
with  ever  so  many  people,  and  I  feel  quite  like  one  of 
the  family.  It's  an  occasion,"  Newman  continued, 
wanting  still  more  to  express  appreciation  without 
an  afterthought,  "that  I  shall  always  remember,  and 
remember  very  pleasantly." 

"  I  think  it 's  an  occasion  that  we  shall  none  of  us 
ever  forget,"  said  the  Marquise  with  her  pure,  neat 
enunciation. 

People  made  way  for  her  as  she  passed,  others 
turned  round  and  looked  at  her,  and  she  received  a 
great  many  greetings  and  pressings  of  the  hand,  all 

328 


THE  AMERICAN 

of  which  she  accepted  with  a  smooth  good  grace. 
But  though  she  smiled  on  every  one  she  said  nothing 
till  she  reached  the  last  of  the  rooms,  where  she 
found  her  elder  son.  Then  "This  is  enough,  sir," 
she  observed  with  her  dignity  of  distinctness,  turning 
at  the  same  time  from  Newman  to  Urbain.  He  put 
out  both  his  hands  and  took  both  hers,  drawing  her 
to  a  seat  with  an  air  of  the  tenderest  veneration.  It 
appeared  to  attest  between  them  the  need  of  more 
intimate  communion,  and  Newman  discreetly  re- 
tired. He  moved  through  the  rooms  for  some  time 
longer,  circulating  freely,  overtopping  most  people  by 
his  great  height,  renewing  acquaintance  with  some 
of  the  groups  to  which  the  Marquis  had  presented 
him,  and  expending  generally  the  surplus  of  his  equa- 
nimity. He  continued  to  find  it  all  a  regular  celebra- 
tion, but  even  the  Fourth  of  July  of  his  childhood 
used  to  have  an  end,  and  the  revelry  on  this  occa- 
sion began  to  deepen  to  a  close.  The  music  was 
sounding  its  last  strains  and  people  about  to  take 
their  leave  were  looking  for  their  hostess.  There 
seemed  to  be  some  difficulty  in  finding  her,  and  he 
caught  a  report  that  she  had  left  the  ball  in  an  access 
of  fatigue  or  of  faintness.  "She  has  succumbed  to 
the  emotions  of  the  evening,"  he  heard  a  voluble 
lady  say.  "Poor  dear  Marquise;  I  can  imagine  all 
they  may  have  been  for  her!" 

But  he  learned  immediately  afterwards  that  she 
had  recovered  herself  and  was  seated  in  an  armchair 
near  the  doorway,  receiving  final  honours  from  mem- 
bers of  her  own  sex  who  insisted  upon  her  not  rising. 
He  himself  had  set  out  in  quest  of  Madame  de  Cintre, 

329 


THE  AMERICAN 

whom  he  had  seen  move  past  him  many  times  in  the 
rapid  circles  of  a  waltz,  but  with  whom,  also,  con- 
forming to  her  explicit  instructions,  he  had  exchanged 
no  word  since  the  beginning  of  the  evening.  The 
whole  house  having  been  thrown  open  the  apart- 
ments of  the  rez-de-chaussee  were  also  accessible, 
though  a  smaller  number  of  persons  had  gathered 
there.  Newman  wandered  through  them,  observing 
a  few  scattered  couples  to  whom  this  comparative 
seclusion  appeared  grateful,  and  reached  a  small 
conservatory  which  opened  into  the  garden.  The 
end  of  the  conservatory  was  formed  by  a  clear  sheet 
of  glass,  unmasked  by  plants  and  admitting  the 
winter  starlight  so  directly  that  a  person  standing 
there  would  seem  to  have  passed  into  the  open  air. 
Two  persons  stood  there  now,  a  lady  and  a  gentle- 
man; the  lady  Newman,  from  within  the  room  and 
although  she  had  turned  her  back  to  it,  immediately 
recognised  as  his  friend.  He  hesitated  as  to  whether 
he  should  advance,  but  as  he  did  so  she  looked 
round,  feeling  apparently  that  he  was  there.  She 
rested  her  eyes  on  him  a  moment  and  then  turned 
again  to  her  companion. 

"  It 's  almost  a  pity  not  to  tell  Mr.  Newman,"  she 
said  with  restraint,  but  in  a  tone  Newman  could 
hear. 

"Tell  him  if  you  like!"  the  gentleman  answered 
in  the  voice  of  Lord  Deepmere. 

"Oh,  tell  me  by  all  means!"  —  and  our  hero  came 
straight  forward. 

Lord  Deepmere,  he  observed,  was  very  red  in  the 
face  and  had  twisted  his  gloves  into  as  tight  a  cord 

33° 


THE  AMERICAN 

as  if  squeezing  them  dry.  These,  presumably,  were 
tokens  of  violent  emotion,  and  it  struck  him  that  the 
traces  of  a  corresponding  agitation  were  visible  in 
Madame  de  Cintre.  The  two  had  been  talking 
with  extreme  animation.  "What  I  should  tell  you  is 
only  to  milord's  credit,"  said  Madame  de  Cintre, 
however,  with  a  clear  enough  smile. 

"It  would  n't  please  him  any  better  for  that!"  cried 
milord  with  his  awkward  laugh. 

"Come;  what's  the  mystery?"  Newman  dt- 
manded.  "Clear  it  up.  I  don't  like  what  I  don't 
understand." 

"We  must  have  some  things  we  don't  like,  and 
go  without  some  we  do,"  said  the  ruddy  young  noble- 
man, still  almost  unnaturally  exhilarated. 

"It's  to  Lord  Deepmere's  credit,  but  it's  not  to 
every  one's,"  Madame  de  Cintre  imperfectly  ex- 
plained. "  So  I  shall  say  nothing  about  it.  You  may 
be  sure,"  she  added;  and  she  put  out  her  hand  to  the 
Englishman,  who  took  it  with  more  force  than  grace. 
"And  now  go  and  dance  hard!"  she  said. 

"Oh  yes,  I  feel  awfully  like  dancing  hard!  I  shall 
go  and  drink  champagne  —  as  hard  as  I  can!"  And 
he  walked  away  with  a  gloomy  guffaw. 

"What  has  happened  between  you?"  Newman 
asked. 

"I  can't  tell  you  —  now,"  she  said.  "Nothing 
that  need  make  you  unhappy." 

"Has  that  weak  brother  been  trying  to  make  love 
to  you  ? " 

She  hesitated,  then  uttered  a  grave  ''No!  —  He's 
a  perfectly  honest  young  man." 


THE  AMERICAN 

"But  you've  been  somehow  upset  and  are  still 
worried.  Something  's  the  matter." 

"Nothing,  I  repeat,  that  need  make  you  unhappy. 
I've  completely  recovered  my  balance  —  if  I  had 
lost  it:  which  I  had  n't!  Some  day  I  '11  tell  you  what 
it  was;  not  now.  I  can't  now,"  she  insisted. 

"Well,  I  confess,"  Newman  returned,  "I  don't 
want  to  hear  anything  out  of  key.  I  'm  satisfied  with 
everything  —  most  of  all  with  you.  I  've  seen  all  the 
ladies  and  talked  with  a  great  many  of  them;  but 
I'm  really  satisfied  with  you."  The  charming 
woman  covered  him  for  a  moment  with  her  bright 
mildness,  and  then  turned  her  eyes  away  into  the 
starry  night.  So  they  stood  silent  a  moment,  side  by 
side.  "Say  you're  really  satisfied  with  me"  Newman 
said. 

He  had  to  wait  a  moment  for  the  answer;  but  it 
came  at  last,  low  yet  distinct.  "  I  'm  very  very  happy." 

It  was  presently  followed  by  a  few  words  from 
another  source  which  made  them  both  turn  round. 
"I'm  sadly  afraid  Madame  la  Comtesse  will  take 
a  chill.  I've  ventured  to  bring  a  shawl."  Mrs. 
Bread  stood  there  softly  solicitous,  holding  a  white 
drapery  in  her  hand. 

"Thank  you,  ma  bonne"  said  Madame  de  Cintre; 
"the  sight  of  those  cold  stars  gives  one  a  sense  of 
frost.  I  won't  take  your  shawl,  but  we'll  go  back 
into  the  house." 

She  passed  back  and  Newman  followed  her,  Mrs. 
Bread  standing  respectfully  aside  to  make  way  for 
them.  Newman  paused  an  instant  before  the  old 
woman  and  she  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  silent 

332 


THE  AMERICAN 

greeting.    "Oh  yes,"  he  said,  "you  must  come  and 
live  with  us." 

"Well  then,  sir,  if  you  will,"  she  answered,  "you've 
not  seen  the  last  of  me 


XVII 

NEWMAN  was  fond  of  music,  and  went  often  to  the 
opera,  where,  a  couple  of  evenings  after  Madame  de 
Bellegarde's  ball,  he  sat  listening  to  "  Don  Giovanni "; 
having  in  honour  of  this  work,  which  he  had  never 
yet  seen  represented,  come  to  occupy  his  orchestra- 
chair  before  the  rising  of  the  curtain.  Frequently 
he  took  a  large  box  and  invited  a  group  of  his  com- 
patriots; this  was  a  mode  of  recreation  to  which  he 
was  much  addicted.  He  liked  making  up  parties  of 
his  friends  and  conducting  them  to  the  theatre  or 
taking  them  to  drive  on  mail-coaches  and  dine  at  res- 
taurants renowned,  by  what  he  could  a  trifle  artlessly 
ascertain,  for  special  and  incomparable  dishes.  He 
liked  doing  things  that  involved  his  paying  for  people; 
the  vulgar  truth  is  he  enjoyed  "treating"  them.  This 
was  not  because  he  was  what  is  called  purse-proud; 
handling  money  in  public  was,  on  the  contrary,  posi- 
tively disagreeable  to  him;  he  had  a  sort  of  personal 
modesty  about  it  akin  to  what  he  would  have  felt 
about  making  a  toilet  before  spectators.  But  just  as 
it  was  a  gratification  to  him  to  be  nobly  dressed,  just 
so  it  was  a  private  satisfaction  (for  he  kept  the  full 
flavour  of  it  quite  delicately  to  himself)  to  see  people 
occupied  and  amused  at  his  pecuniary  expense  and 
by  his  profuse  interposition.  To  set  a  large  body  of 
them  in  motion  and  transport  them  to  a  distance,  to 
have  special  conveyances,  to  charter  railway-carriages 


THE  AMERICAN 

and  steamboats,  harmonised  with  his  relish  for  bold 
processes  and  made  hospitality  the  potent  thing  it 
should  ideally  be.  A  few  evenings  before  the  occa- 
sion of  which  I  speak  he  had  invited  several  ladies 
and  gentlemen  to  the  opera  to  listen  to  the  young  and 
wondrous  Adelina  Patti  —  a  party  which  included 
Miss  Dora  Finch.  It  befell,  however,  that  Miss  Dora 
Finch,  sitting  near  him  in  the  box,  discoursed  bril- 
liantly, not  only  during  the  entr'actes  but  during 
many  of  the  finest  portions  of  the  performance,  so 
that  he  had  really  come  away  with  an  irritated  sense 
that  the  new  rare  diva  had  a  thin,  shrill  voice  and 
that  her  roulades  resembled  giggles.  After  this  he 
promised  himself  to  go  for  a  while  to  the  opera  alone. 
When  the  curtain  had  fallen  on  the  first  act  of 
"Don  Giovanni"  he  turned  round  in  his  place  to 
observe  the  audience.  Presently,  in  one  of  the  boxes, 
he  perceived  Urbain  de  Bellegarde  and  his  wife. 
The  little  Marquise  swept  the  house  very  busily  with 
a  glass,  and  Newman,  supposing  she  saw  him,  deter- 
mined to  go  and  bid  her  good-evening.  M.  de  Belle- 
garde  leaned  against  a  column,  motionless,  looking 
straight  in  front  of  him,  one  hand  in  the  breast  of  hi.f 
white  waistcoat  and  the  other  resting  his  hat  on  1m 
thigh.  Newman  was  about  to  leave  his  place  when 
he  noticed  in  that  obscure  region  devoted  to  the  small 
boxes  which  in  French  are  called,  not  inaptly,  bath- 
tubs, from  their  promoting  at  least  immersion  through 
the  action  of  the  pores,  a  face  which  even  the  dim 
light  and  the  distance  could  not  make  wholly  indis- 
tinct. It  was  the  face  of  a  young  and  pretty  woman, 
crowned  with  an  arrangement  of  pink  roses  and  dia- 

335 


THE  AMERICAN 

monds.  This  person  looked  round  the  house  while 
her  fan  moved  with  practised  grace;  when  she  low- 
ered it  Newman  perceived  a  pair  of  plump  white 
shoulders  and  the  edge  of  a  rose-coloured  dress. 
Beside  her,  very  close  to  the  shoulders  and  talking, 
apparently  with  an  earnestness  which  it  suited  her 
scantly  to  heed,  sat  a  young  man  with  a  red  face  and 
a  very  low  shirt-collar.  A  moment's  consideration 
left  Newman  no  doubts;  the  pretty  young  woman  was 
Noemie  Nioche.  He  looked  hard  into  the  depths  of 
the  box,  thinking  her  father  might  perhaps  be  in 
attendance,  but  from  what  he  could  see  the  young 
man's  eloquence  had  no  other  auditor.  Newman  at 
last  made  his  way  out,  and  in  doing  so  passed  beneath 
the  baignoire  of  his  former  client.  She  saw  him  as 
he  approached,  giving  him  a  nod  and  smile  which 
seemed  meant  as  a  hint  that  her  enviable  rise  in  the 
world  had  not  made  her  inhuman.  He  passed  into 
the  foyer  and  walked  through  it,  but  suddenly  to 
pause  before  a  gentleman  seated  on  one  of  the  divans. 
The  gentleman's  elbows  were  on  his  knees;  he  leaned 
forward  and  stared  at  the  pavement,  lost  apparently 
in  meditations  of  a  gloomy  cast.  But  in  spite  of  his 
bent  head  Newman  recognised  him  and  in  a  moment 
had  sat  down  beside  him.  Then  the  gentleman 
looked  up  and  displayed  the  expressive  countenance 
of  Valentin  de  Bellegarde.  "What  in  the  world  are 
you  thinking  of  so  hard  ?" 

"A  subject  that  requires  hard  thinking  to  do  it  jus- 
tice," Valentin  promptly  replied.  "  My  immeasurable 
idiocy." 

"What 's  the  matter  now?*' 


THE  AMERICAN 

"The  matter  now  is  that,  as  I  'm  a  madman  with 
lucid  intervals,  I  'm  having  one  of  them  now.  But 
I  carne  within  an  ace  of  entertaining  a  sentiment  — !" 

"For  the  young  lady  below  stairs,  in  a  baignoire, 
in  a  pink  dress  ?" 

"Did  you  notice  what  a  rare  kind  of  pink  it  was  ?" 
Valentin  enquired  by  way  of  answer.  "It  makes  her 
look  as  white  as  new  milk/' 

Newman  had  a  stare  of  some  wonderment,  and 
then:  "Is  she  what  you  call  creme  de  la  creme?"  But 
as  Valentin's  face  pronounced  this  a  witticism  below 
the  Parisian  standard  he  went  on:  "You  've  stopped 
then,  at  any  rate,  going  to  see  her?" 

"Oh  bless  you,  no.  Why  should  I  stop?  I've 
changed,  but  she  has  n't,"  said  Valentin.  "The  more 
I  see  her  the  more  sure  I  am  —  well,  that  I  see  her 
right.  She  has  awfully  pretty  arms,  and  several  other 
things,  but  she  's  not  really  a  bit  gentille.  The  other 
day  she  had  the  bad  taste  to  begin  to  abuse  her 
father,  to  his  face,  in  my  presence.  I  should  n't  have 
expected  it  of  her;  it  was  a  disappointment.  Heigho!'' 

"Why,  she  cares  no  more  for  her  father  than  foi 
her  door-mat,"  Newman  declared.  "I  discovered 
that  the  first  time  I  saw  her." 

"Oh,  that 's  another  affair;  she  may  think  of  the 
poor  old  beggar  what  she  pleases.  But  it  was  base  in 
her  to  call  him  bad  names;  it  spoiled  my  reckoning 
and  quite  threw  me  off.  It  was  about  a  frilled  petti- 
coat that  he  was  to  have  fetched  from  the  washer- 
woman's; he  appeared  to  have  forgotten  the  frilled 
petticoat.  She  almost  boxed  his  ears.  He  stood  there 
staring  at  her  with  his.  little  blank  eyes  and  smooth- 

337 


THE  AMERICAN 

ing  his  old  hat  with  his  coat-tail.  At  last  he  turned 
round  and  went  out  without  a  word.  Then  I  told  her 
it  was  in  very  bad  taste  to  speak  so  even  to  an 
unnatural  father.  She  said  she  should  be  so  thankful 
to  me  if  I  would  mention  it  to  her  whenever  her  taste 
was  at  fault;  she  had  immense  confidence  in  mine. 
I  told  her  I  could  n't  have  the  inconvenience  of  form- 
ing her  manners;  I  had  had  an  idea  they  were  already 
formed,  after  the  best  models.  She  had  quite  put  me 
out.  But  I  shall  get  over  it,"  said  Valentin  gaily. 

"Oh,  time  's  a  great  consoler!"  Newman  answered 
with  humorous  sobriety.  He  was  silent  a  moment 
and  then  added  in  another  tone:  "I  wish  you  'd  think 
of  what  I  said  to  you  the  other  day.  Come  over  to 
America  with  us  and  I  '11  put  you  in  the  way  of  doing 
some  business.  You  've  got  a  very  fine  mind  if  you  'd 
only  give  it  a  chance." 

Valentin  made  a  genial  grimace.  "My  mind's 
much  obliged  to  you:  you  make  it  feel  finer  than 
ever.  Would  the  ' chance'  be  that  place  in  a  bank  ?" 

"There  are  several  places,  but  I  suppose  you'd 
consider  the  bank  the  most  aristocratic." 

Valentin  burst  into  a  laugh.  "My  dear  fellow,  at 
night  all  cats  are  grey!  When  one  falls  from  such 
a  height  there  are  no  degrees!" 

Newman  answered  nothing  for  a  minute.  Then, 
"I  think  you  '11  find  there  are  degrees  in  success,"  he 
said  with  his  most  exemplary  mild  distinctness. 

Valentin  had  leaned  forward  again  with  his  elbows 
on  his  knees  and  was  scratching  the  pavement  with 
his  stick.  At  last,  looking  up,  "Do  you  really  think 
1  ought  to  do  something  ?"  he  asked. 

338 


THE  AMERICAN 

Newman  laid  his  hand  on  his  companion's  arm 
and  eyed  him  a  moment  through  measuring  lids. 
"Try  it  and  see.  I  'm  not  sure  you  're  not  too  bright 
to  live;  but  why  not  find  out  how  bright  a  man  can 
afford  to  be?" 

"Do  you  really  think  I  can  make  some  money? 
Once  when  I  was  a  small  boy  I  found  a  silver  piece 
under  a  door-mat.  I  should  like  awfully  to  see  how 
it  feels  to  find  a  gold  one." 

"Well,  do  what  I  tell  you  and  you  shall  find  salva- 
tion," said  Newman.  "Think  of  it  well."  And  he 
looked  at  his  watch  and  prepared  to  resume  his  way 
to  Madame  de  Bellegarde's  box. 

"Upon  my  honour  I  will  think  of  it," Valentin 
returned.  "I  '11  go  and  listen  to  Mozart  another  half- 
hour  —  I  can  always  think  better  to  music  —  and 
profoundly  meditate  on  it." 

The  Marquis  was  with  his  wife  when  Newman 
entered  their  box;  he  was  as  remotely  bland  as  usual, 
but  the  great  demonstration  in  which  he  had  lately 
played  his  part  appeared  to  have  been  a  drawbridge 
lowered  and  lifted  again.  Newman  was  once  more 
outside  the  castle  and  its  master  perched  on  the 
battlements.  "What  do  you  think  of  the  opera?" 
our  hero  none  the  less  artlessly  demanded.  "What 
do  you  think  of  the  cool  old  Don  ?" 

"He  doesn't  remain  so  very  cool,"  the  Marquis 
amusedly  replied.  "But  we  all  know  what  Mozait 
is;  our  impressions  don't  date  from  this  evening. 
Mozart  is  youth,  freshness,  brilliancy,  facility  — • 
facility  perhaps  a  little  too  unbroken.  But  the  exe- 
cution is  here  and  there  deplorably  rough." 

339 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  'm  very  curious  to  see  how  it  ends,"  Newman 
less  critically  continued. 

"You  speak  as  if  it  were  a  feuilleton  in  the 
Figaro"  observed  the  Marquis.  "You  've  surely  seen 
the  opera  before?" 

"Never  —  I  'm  sure  I  should  have  remembered  it. 
Donna  Elvira  reminds  me  of  Madame  de  Cintre; 
I  don't  mean  in  her  situation,  but  in  her  lovely  tone." 

"It 's  a  very  nice  distinction,"  the  Marquis  neatly 
conceded.  "There  's  no  possibility,  I  imagine,  of  my 
sister's  being  forsaken." 

"That's  right,  sir,"  Newman  said.  "But  what 
becomes  of  the  Don?" 

"The  Devil  comes  down  —  or  comes  up  —  and 
carries  him  off,"  Madame Urbain  replied.  "  I  suppose 
Zerlina  reminds  you  of  me." 

"I  '11  go  to  the  foyer  for  a  few  moments,"  said  her 
husband,  "and  give  you  a  chance  to  say  that  I  'm  like 
the  Commander  —  the  man  of  stone."  With  which 
he  passed  out  of  the  box. 

The  little  Marquise  stared  an  instant  at  the  velvet 
ledge  of  the  balcony  and  then  murmured:  "Not  a  man 
of  stone,  a  man  of  wood!"  Newman  had  taken  her 
husband's  empty  chair;  she  made  no  protest,  but 
turned  suddenly  and  laid  her  closed  fan  on  his 
arm.  "I'm  very  glad  you  came  in;  I  want  to  ask 
you  a  favour.  I  wanted  to  do  so  on  Thursday,  at 
my  mother-in-law's  ball,  but  you  would  give  me 
no  chance.  You  were  in  such  very  good  spirits  that 
I  thought  you  might  grant  my  little  prayer  then; 
riot  that  you  look  particularly  doleful  now.  It 's  some- 
thing you  must  promise  me;  now  's  the  time  to  take 

340 


THE  AMERICAN 

you;  after  you  're  married  you  '11  be  good  for  nothing, 
Allans,  promise!" 

"I  never  sign  a  paper  without  reading  it  first," 
said  Newman.  "Show  me  your  document." 

"No,  you  must  sign  with  your  eyes  shut;  I  '11  hold 
your  hand.  Foyons,  before  you  put  your  head  into 
the  noose  you  ought  to  be  thankful  for  me  giving 
you  a  chance  to  do  something  amusing." 

"If  it 's  so  amusing,"  said  Newman,  "it  will  be  in 
even  better  season  after  I  'm  married." 

"In  other  words,"  she  cried,  "you  '11  not  do  it  at 
all,  for  then  you  '11  be  afraid  of  your  wife." 

"Oh,  if  the  thing  violates  the  moral  law  —  pardon 
my  strong  language!  —  I  won't  go  into  it.  If  it 
does  n't  I  shall  be  quite  as  ready  for  it  after  my 
marriage." 

"Oh,  you  people,  with  your  moral  law  —  I  wonder 
that  with  such  big  words  in  your  mouth  you  don't  all 
die  of  choking!"  Madame  Urbain  declared.  "You 
talk  like  a  treatise  on  logic,  and  English  logic  into 
the  bargain.  Promise  then  after  you're  married,"  she 
went  on.  "After  all,  I  shall  enjoy  keeping  you  to  it." 

"Well,  then  after  I'm  married,"  said  Newman 
serenely. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  at  him,  and  he 
wondered  what  was  coming.  "I  suppose  you  know 
what  my  life  is,"  she  presently  said.  "I  've  no  pleas- 
ure, I  see  nothing,  I  do  nothing.  I  live  in  Paris  a& 
I  might  live  at  Poitiers.  My  mother-in-law  calls 
me  —  what  is  the  pretty  word  ?  —  a  gadabout; 
accuses  me  of  going  to  unheard-of  places  and  thinks 
it  ought  to  be  joy  enough  for  me  to  sit  at  home  and 

341 


THE  AMERICAN 

count  over  my  ancestors  on  my  fingers.  But  why 
should  I  bother  about  my  ancestors  ?  I  'm  sure  they 
never  bothered  about  me.  I  don't  propose  to  live 
with  a  green  shade  over  my  eyes;  I  hold  that  the  only 
thing  you  can  do  with  things  arranged  in  a  row  before 
you  is  see  them.  My  husband,  you  know,  has  prin- 
ciples, and  the  first  on  the  list  is  that  the  Tuileries  are 
dreadfully  vulgar.  If  the  Tuileries  are  vulgar  his 
principles  are  imbecile.  If  I  chose  I  might  have  prin- 
ciples quite  as  well  as  he.  If  they  grew  on  one's 
family  tree  I  should  only  have  to  give  mine  a  shake 
to  bring  down  a  shower  of  the  finest.  At  any  rate 
I  prefer  clever  Bonapartes  to  stupid  Bourbons." 

"Oh,  I  see;  you  want  to  go  to  court,"  said  New- 
man, fantastically  wondering  if  she  might  n't  wish 
him  to  smooth  her  way  to  the  imperial  halls  through 
some  ingenious  use  of  the  American  Legation. 

The  Marquise  gave  a  little  sharp  laugh.  "You  're 
a  thousand  miles  away.  I  '11  take  care  of  the  Tuile- 
ries myself;  the  day  I  decide  to  go  they  '11  be  glad 
enough  to  have  me.  Sooner  or  later  I  shall  dance  in 
an  imperial  quadrille.  I  know  what  you  're  going  to 
say:  'How  will  you  dare?'  But  I  shall  dare.  I  'in 
afraid  of  my  husband;  he  's  soft,  smooth,  irreproach- 
able, everything  you  know;  but  I  'm  afraid  of  him  — 
horribly  afraid  of  him.  And  yet  I  shall  arrive  at  the 
Tuileries.  But  that  will  not  be  this  winter,  nor 
perhaps  next,  and  meantime  I  must  live.  For  the 
moment  I  want  to  go  somewhere  else;  it 's  my  dream. 
I  want  to  go  to  the  Bal  Bullier." 

"To  the  Bal  Bullier?"  repeated  Newman,  for 
*vhom  the  words  at  first  meant  nothing. 

342 


THE  AMERICAN 

"The  ball  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  where  the  students 
dance  with  their  mistresses.  Don't  tell  me  you  've 
not  heard  of  it." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Newman;  "I  've  heard  of  it;  I  re- 
member now.  I  've  even  been  there.  And  you  want 
to  go  there  ?" 

"It 's  bete,  it  's  low,  it  's  anything  you  please.  But 
I  want  to  go.  Some  of  my  friends  have  been,  and 
they  say  it 's  very  curious.  My  friends  go  every- 
where; it 's  only  I  who  sit  moping  at  home." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  're  not  at  home  now,"  said 
Newman,  "  and  I  should  n't  exactly  say  you  were 
moping." 

"I  'm  bored  to  death.  I  Ve  been  to  the  opera 
twice  a  week  for  the  last  eight  years.  Whenever  I  ask 
for  anything  my  mouth  is  stopped  with  that:  Pray, 
madame,  have  n't  you  your  loge  aux  Italiens?  Could 
a  woman  of  taste  want  more  ?  In  the  first  place  my 
box  was  down  in  my  contrat;  they  have  to  give  it  to 
me.  To-night,  for  instance,  I  should  have  preferred 
a  thousand  times  to  go  to  the  Palais  Royal.  But  my 
husband  won't  go  to  the  Palais  Royal  because  the 
ladies  of  the  court  go  there  so  much.  You  may 
imagine  then  whether  he  would  take  me  to  Bullier's; 
he  says  it  is  a  mere  imitation  —  and  a  bad  one  —  of 
what  they  do  in  the  imperial  intimite.  But  as  I  'm 
not  yet  for  a  little  in  the  imperial  intimite  —  which 
must  be  charming  —  why  should  n't  I  look  in  where 
you  can  get  the  nearest  notion  of  it  ?  It 's  my  dream 
at  any  rate;  it 's  a  fixed  idea.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  to 
give  me  your  arm;  you  're  less  compromising  than 
any  one  else.  I  don't  know  why,  but  you  are.  I  can 

343 


THE  AMERICAN 

arrange  it.  I  shall  risk  something,  but  that 's  my 
own  affair.  Besides,  fortune  favours  the  bold.  Don't 
refuse  me;  it  is  my  dream!" 

Newman  gave  a  loud  laugh.  It  seemed  to  him 
hardly  worth  while  to  be  the  wife  of  the  Marquis  de 
Bellegarde,  a  daughter  of  the  crusaders,  heiress  of  six 
centuries  of  glories  and  traditions,  only  to  have 
centred  one's  aspirations  upon  the  sight  of  fifty 
young  ladies  kicking  off  the  hats  of  a  hundred  young 
men.  It  struck  him  as  a  theme  for  the  moralist,  but 
he  had  no  time  to  moralise.  The  curtain  rose  again ;  M. 
de  Bellegarde  returned  and  he  went  back  to  his  seat. 

He  observed  that  Valentin  had  taken  his  place  in 
the  baignoire  of  Mademoiselle  Nioche,  behind  this 
young  lady  and  her  companion,  where  he  was  visible 
only  if  one  carefully  looked  for  him.  In  the  next  act 
Newman  met  him  in  the  lobby  and  asked  him  if  he 
had  reflected  upon  possible  emigration.  "If  you 
really  meant  to  meditate,"  he  said,  "you  might  have 
chosen  a  better  place  for  it." 

"Oh,  the  place  wasn't  bad,"  Valentin  replied. 
"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that  girl.  I  listened  to  the 
music  and,  heedless  of  the  play  and  without  looking 
at  the  stage,  turned  over  your  handsome  proposal. 
At  first  it  seemed  quite  fantastic.  And  then  a  cer- 
tain fiddle  in  the  orchestra  —  I  could  distinguish  it 
—  began  to  say  as  it  scraped  away:  'Why  not,  why 
not,  why  not?'  And  then  in  that  rapid  movement 
all  the  fiddles  took  it  up  and  the  conductor's  stick 
seemed  to  beat  it  in  the  air:  'Why  not,  why  not,  why 
not?'  I'm  sure  I  can't  say!  I  don't  see  why  not. 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  n't  do  something.  It  appears 

344 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  me  a  really  very  bright  idea.  This  sort  of  thing  is 
certainly  very  stale.  And  then  I  should  come  back 
with  a  trunk  full  of  dollars.  Besides,  I  might  possibly 
find  it  amusing.  They  call  me  an  extravagant 
raffine;  who  knows  but  that  I  might  discover  an 
unsuspected  charm  in  shopkeeping  ?  It  would  really 
have  a  certain  rare  and  romantic  side;  it  would  look 
well  in  my  biography.  It  would  look  as  if  I  were 
a  strong  man,  an  homme  de  premier  ordre>  a  man  who 
dominated  circumstances." 

"I  guess  you  had  better  not  mind  how  it  would 
look,"  said  Newman.  "It  always  looks  well  to  have 
half  a  million  of  dollars.  There  's  no  reason  why  you 
should  n't  have  them  if  you  '11  mind  what  I  tell  you 
—  I  alone  —  and  not  fool  round  with  other  parties." 
He  passed  his  arm  into  that  of  his  friend,  and  the  two 
walked  for  some  time  up  and  down  one  of  the  less 
frequented  corridors.  Newman's  imagination  began 
to  glow  with  the  idea  of  converting  this  irresistible 
idler  into  a  first-class  man  of  business.  He  felt  for 
the  moment  a  spiritual  zeal,  the  zeal  of  the  propa- 
gandist. Its  ardour  was  in  part  the  result  of  that 
general  discomfort  which  the  sight  of  all  uninvested 
capital  produced  in  him;  so  charming  an  intelligence 
ought  to  be  dedicated  to  fine  uses.  The  finest  uses 
known  to  Newman's  experience  were  transcendent 
operations  in  ferocious  markets.  And  then  his  zeal 
was  quickened  by  personal  kindness;  he  entertained 
a  form  of  pity  which  he  was  well  aware  he  never 
could  have  made  the  Comte  de  Bellegarde  under- 
stand. He  never  lost  a  sense  of  its  being  pitiable  that 
so  bright  a  figure  should  think  it  a  large  life  to  revolve 

345 


THE  AMERICAN 

in  varnished  boots  between  the  Rue  d'Anjou  and  the 
Rue  de  1'Universite,  taking  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens 
on  the  way,  when  over  there  in  America  one's  prome- 
nade was  a  continent  and  one's  boulevard  stretched 
from  one  world-sea  to  another.  It  mortified  him 
moreover  to  have  to  understand  that  Valentin  wanted 
for  money;  it  was  n't  business,  that  was  what  was  the 
matter  with  it,  he  would  have  said;  it  was  unprac- 
tical, unsuitable,  unsightly  —  very  much  as  if  he 
had  n't  known  how  to  spell  or  to  ride.  There  was 
something  almost  ridiculously  anomalous  to  Newman 
in  the  sight  of  lively  pretensions  unaccompanied  by 
a  considerable  control  of  Western  railroads;  though 
I  may  add  that  he  would  not  have  maintained  that 
such  advantages  were  in  themselves  a  proper  ground 
for  pretensions.  "I'll  put  you  into  something,"  he 
said  at  any  rate;  "I  '11  see  you  through.  I  know  half 
a  dozen  things  in  which  we  can  make  a  place  for  you. 
You  '11  find  it  a  big  rush  and  you  '11  see  some  high 
jumps;  it  will  take  you  a  little  while  to  get  used  to 
the  scale.  But  you  '11  work  in  before  long  and  at  the 
end  of  six  months  —  after  you  've  tasted  blood,  after 
you  've  done  a  thing  or  two  on  your  own  account  — 
you  '11  have  some  good  times.  And  then  it  will  be 
very  pleasant  for  you  having  your  sister  over  there. 
It  will  be  pleasant  for  her  to  have  you  too.  Yes, 
Valentine,"  he  continued,  pressing  his  comrade's  arm 
genially,  "I  think  I  see  just  the  opening  for  you. 
Keep  quiet,  and  I'll  find  something  nice  —  I  '11  fix 
you  all  right." 

Newman  pursued  this  favouring  strain  over  a  wide 
stretch  of  prospect;  the  two  men  strolled  about  for 

346 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Valentin  listened  and  ques- 
tioned, making  his  friend  laugh  at  his  ignorance  of 
the  very  alphabet  of  affairs,  smiling  himself  too,  half 
ironical  and  half  curious.  And  yet  he  was  serious 
and  nearly  convinced,  fascinated  as  by  the  biggest, 
plainest  map  of  the  great  land  of  El  Dorado  ever 
spread  before  him.  It  is  true,  withal,  that  if  it  might 
be  bold,  original  and  even  amusing  to  surrendei  his 
faded  escutcheon  to  the  process,  the  smart  patent 
transatlantic  process,  of  heavy  regilding,  he  did  n't 
quite  relish  the  freedom  with  which  it  might  be 
handled,  and  yet  suddenly  felt  eager  to  know  the 
worst  that  might  await  him.  So  that  when  the  bell 
rang  to  indicate  the  close  of  the  entr'acte  there  was 
a  certain  mock-heroism  in  his  saying  all  gaily:  "Well 
then,  put  me  through;  locate  me  and  fix  me!  I  make 
myself  over  to  you.  Dip  me  into  the  pot  and  turn 
me  into  gold." 

They  had  passed  into  the  corridor  which  encircled 
the  row  of  baignoires,  and  Valentin  stopped  in  front 
of  the  dusky  little  box  in  which  Mademoiselle 
Nioche  had  bestowed  herself,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
door-knob.  "Oh  come,  are  you  going  back  there?" 
Newman  hereupon  asked. 

"Mon  Dieu,  out,"  said  Valentin. 
"Have  n't  you  another  place  ?" 
"Yes,  I  've  my  usual  place  in  the  stalls." 
"You  had  better  go  then  and  occupy  it." 
"I  see  her  very  well  from  there  too,"  Valentin  went 
on  serenely;  "and  to-night  she  's  worth  seeing.    But," 
he  added  in  a  moment,  "I  've  a  particular  reason  for 
going  back  just  now." 

347 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Oh,  I  give  you  up,"  said  Newman.  "You  're 
sank  in  depravity  and  don't  know  the  light  when 
you  see  it." 

"No,  it 's  only  this.  There  's  a  young  man  in  the 
box  whom  I  shall  worry  by  going  in,  and  I  really 
want  to  worry  him." 

"Why,  you  cold-blooded  calculating  wretch !"  New- 
man cried.  "  Can't  you  give  the  poor  devil  a  chance  ?" 

"No,  he  has  trod  with  all  his  weight  on  my  toes. 
The  box  is  not  his;  Noemie  came  alone  and  installed 
herself.  I  went  and  spoke  to  her,  and  in  a  few 
moments  she  asked  me  to  go  and  get  her  fan  from 
the  pocket  of  her  cloak,  which  the  greedy  ouvreuse 
had  carried  off,  with  her  eye  to  a  fee,  instead  of 
hanging  it  up  on  a  peg.  In  my  absence  a  gentleman 
came  in  and  took  the  chair  beside  her  in  which  I  had 
been  sitting.  My  reappearance  put  him  out,  and  he 
had  the  grossness  to  show  it.  He  came  within  an  ace 
of  being  impertinent.  I  don't  know  who  he  is  — 
a  big  hard-breathing  red-faced  animal.  I  can't  think 
where  she  picks  up  such  acquaintances.  He  has  been 
drinking  too,  but  he  knows  what  he  's  about.  Just 
now,  in  the  second  act,  the  brute  did  unmistakeably 
betray  an  intention.  I  shall  put  in  another  appear- 
ance for  ten  minutes  —  time  enough  to  give  him  an 
opportunity  to  commit  himself  if  he  feels  inclined. 
I  really  can't  let  him  suppose  he  's  keeping  me  out  of 
the  box." 

"  My  poor  dear  boy,"  said  Newman  remonstrantly, 
"why  should  n't  he  have  his  good  time  ?  You  're  not 
going  to  pick  a  quarrel  about  such  an  article  as  that, 
1  hope." 

348 


THE  AMERICAN 

"The  nature  of  the  article  —  if  you  mean  of  the 
young  lady  —  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  1  Ve  no 
intention  of  picking  a  quarrel.  I  'm  not  a  bully  nor 
a  fire-eater,  I  simply  wish  to  make  a  point  that  a 
gentleman  must." 

"Oh,  damn  your  point!"  Newman  impatiently 
returned.  "That 's  the  trouble  with  you  Frenchmen; 
you  must  be  always  making  points.  Well,"  he  added, 
"be  lively,  or  I  shall  pack  you  of?  first  to  a  country 
where  you  '11  find  half  your  points  already  made  and 
the  other  half  quite  unnoticed." 

"Very  good,"  Valentin  answered,  "whenever  you 
like.  But  if  I  go  to  America  I  must  n't  let  the  fellow 
suppose  it 's  to  run  away  from  him." 

And  they  separated.  At  the  end  of  the  act  New- 
man observed  that  Valentin  was  still  in  the  baignoire. 
He  strolled  into  the  corridor  again,  expecting  to  meet 
him,  and  when  he  was  within  a  few  yards  of  Noemie's 
retreat  saw  his  friend  pass  out  accompanied  by  the 
young  man  who  had  been  seated  beside  its  more 
interesting  occupant.  The  two  walked  with  some 
quickness  of  step  to  a  distant  part  of  the  lobby,  where 
Newman  perceived  them  stop  and  stand  talking. 
The  manner  of  each  was  quiet  enough,  but  the 
stranger,  who  was  strikingly  flushed,  had  begun  to 
w^ipe  his  face  very  emphatically  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief.  By  this  time  Newman  was  abreast  of 
the  baignoire;  the  door  had  been  left  ajar  and  he 
could  see  a  pink  dress  inside.  He  immediately  went 
in.  Noemie  turned  on  him  a  glitter  of  interest. 

"Ah,  if  you  Ve  at  last  decided  to  come  and  see  me 
you  but  just  save  your  politeness.  You  find  me  in 

.34? 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  fine  moment.  Sit  down."  She  looked,  it  had  to  DC 
owned,  exceedingly  pretty  and  perverse  and  animated 
»nd  elegant,  and  quite  as  if  she  had  had  some  very 
good  news. 

"Something  has  happened  here!"  Newman  said 
while  he  kept  his  feet. 

"You  find  me  in  a  very  fine  moment,"  she 
repeated.  "Two  gentlemen  —  one  of  them  's  M.  de 
Bellegarde,  the  pleasure  of  whose  acquaintance  I  owe 
to  you  —  have  just  had  words  about  your  humble 
servant.  Very  sharp  words  too.  They  can't  come  off 
without  its  going  further.  A  meeting  and  a  big  noise 

—  that  will  give  me  a  push!"  said  Noemie,  clapping 
with   a   soft   thud    her   little   pearl-coloured    hands. 
"C'est  $a  qui  pose  une  femme!" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  Bellegarde 's  going  to 
fight  about  you!"  Newman  disgustedly  cried. 

"Nothing  less  !" — and  she  looked  at  him  with 
a  hard  little  smile.  "No,  no,  you  're  not  galant !  And 
if  you  prevent  this  affair  I  shall  owe  you  a  grudge 

—  and  pay  my  debt!" 

Newman  uttered  one  of  the  least  attenuated  im- 
precations that  had  ever  passed  his  lips,  and  then, 
turning  his  back  without  more  ceremony  on  the  pink 
dress,  went  out  of  the  box.  In  the  corridor  he  found 
Valentin  and  his  companion  walking  toward  him. 
The  latter  had  apparently  just  thrust  a  card  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  Noemie's  jealous  votary  was  an 
immense,  robust  young  man  with  a  candid,  excited 
glaie,  a  thick  nose  and  a  thick  mouth,  the  certainty 
of  a  thick  articulation ;  also  with  a  pair  of  very  large 
white  gloves  and  a  very  massive,  voluminous  watch- 

350 


THE  AMERICAN 

chain.  When  they  reached  the  box  Valentin,  over 
whom  he  towered,  made  with  an  emphasised  bow 
way  for  him  to  pass  in  first.  Newman  touched  his 
friend's  arm  as  a  sign  he  wished  to  speak  with  him, 
and  Valentin  answered  that  he  would  be  with  him  in 
an  instant.  Valentin  entered  the  box  after  the  robust 
young  man,  but  a  couple  of  minutes  later  reappeared 
in  a  state  of  aggravated  gaiety.  "She's  immensely 
set  up  —  she  says  we  '11  make  her  fortune.  I  don't 
want  to  be  fatuous,  but  I  think  it  very  possible." 

"So  you  're  going  to  fight  ?"  Newman  asked. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't  look  at  me  as  if  I  had  told 
you  I  'm  not !  It  was  not  my  own  choice.  The 
thing  's  perfectly  settled." 

"I  told  you  so!"  groaned  Newman. 

"I  told  him  so,"  smiled  Valentin. 

"What  the  hell  did  he  ever  do  to  you  ?" 

"  My  good  friend,  it  does  n't  matter  what.  It  seems 
to  me  you  don't  understand  these  things.  He  used  an 
expression  —  I  took  it  up." 

"But  I  insist  on  knowing;  I  can't,  as  your  elder 
brother,  let  you  give  way  to  public  tantrums  —  !" 

"  I  'm,  as  your  younger  brother,  very  much  obliged 
to  you,"  said  Valentin.  "  I  've  nothing  to  conceal,  but 
I  can't  go  into  particulars  now  and  here." 

"We'll  leave  this  place  then.  You  can  tell  me 
outside." 

"Oh  no,  I  can't  leave  this  place;  why  should  I 
hurry  away  ?  I  '11  go  to  my  stall  and  sit  out  the 
opera." 

"You '11  not  enjoy  it." 

Valentin  looked  at  him  a  moment,  coloured  a  little^ 

351 


THE  AMERICAN 

smiled  and  patted  his  arm.  "You  'd  have  been 
an  ornament  to  the  Golden  Age.  Before  an  affair 
a  man  's  quiet.  The  quietest  thing  I  can  do  is  to  go 
straight  to  my  place." 

"Ah,"  said  Newman,  "you  want  her  to  see  you 
there  —  you  and  your  quietness.  Your  quietness  will 
drown  the  orchestra.  I  'm  not  so  undeveloped.  It 's 
the  damnedest  foolery." 

Valentin  remained,  and  the  two  men,  in  their 
respective  places,  sat  out  the  rest  of  the  performance, 
which  was  also  enjoyed  by  Mademoiselle  Nioche  and 
her  truculent  admirer.  At  the  end  Newman  joined 
his  friend  again,  and  they  went  out  into  the  street 
together.  The  young  man  shook  his  head  at  the  pro- 
posal that  he  should  get  into  Newman's  own  vehicle 
and  stopped  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement.  "  I  must 
go  off  alone;  must  look  up  a  couple  of  friends  who  '11 
be  so  good  as  to  act  for  me." 

"I'll  be  so  good  as  to  act  for  you,"  Newman 
declared.  "Put  the  case  into  my  hands." 

"You're  very  kind,  but  that's  hardly  possible. 
In  the  first  place  you  're,  as  you  said  just  now, 
almost  my  brother;  you  're  going  to  marry  my  sister. 
That  alone  disqualifies  you;  it  casts  doubts  on  your 
impartiality.  And  if  it  did  n't  it  would  be  enough  for 
me  that  you  have  n't,  as  I  say,  God  forgive  you,  the 
sentiment  of  certain  shades.  You  'd  only  try  to  pre- 
vent a  meeting." 

"Of  course  I  should,"  said  Newman.  "Whoever 
your  friends  are  they  '11  be  ruffians  if  they  don't  do 
that." 

"Unquestionably  then  they  '11  do  it.  They  '11  urge 
352 


THE  AMERICAN 

that  excuses  be  made,  the  most  proper  excuses.    But 
you  'd  be  much  too  coulant.   You  won't  do." 

Newman  was  silent  a  moment.  He  was  in  pre- 
sence, it  seemed  to  him,  of  a  vain  and  grotesque 
parade,  poor,  restricted,  indirect  as  a  salve  to  an 
insult  or  a  righting  of  a  wrong,  and  yet  pretentious 
and  pompous  as  an  accommodation.  But  he  saw  it 
useless  to  attempt  interference.  "When  is  this  pre- 
cious performance  to  come  off?"  he  could  only  ask. 

"The  sooner  the  better.  The  day  after  to-morrow 
I  hope." 

"Well,"  Newman  went  on,  "I  've  certainly  a  claim 
to  know  the  facts.  I  can't  consent  to  shut  my  eyes  to 
a  single  one  of  them." 

"I  shall  be  most  happy  to  tell  you  them  all  then. 
They  're  very  simple  and  it  will  be  quickly  done. 
But  now  everything  depends  on  my  putting  my  hands 
on  my  friends  without  delay.  I  '11  jump  into  a  cab; 
you  had  better  drive  to  my  rooms  and  wait  for  me 
there.  I  '11  turn  up  at  the  end  of  an  hour." 

Newman  assented  protestingly,  let  him  go,  and 
then  betook  himself  to  the  encumbered  little  apart- 
ment in  the  Rue  d'Anjou.  It  was  more  than  an  hour 
before  Valentin  returned,  but  when  he  did  so  he  war 
able  to  announce  that  he  had  found  one  of  his  access 
ories  and  that  this  gentleman  had  taken  upon  him- 
self the  care  of  securing  the  other.  Newman  h?d 
been  sitting  without  lights  by  the  faded  fire,  on  which 
he  had  thrown  a  log;  the  blaze  played  over  the  rich 
multifarious  properties  of  the  place  and  produced  fan- 
tastic gleams  and  shadows.  He  listened  in  silence  to 
Valentin's  account  of  .what  had  passed  between  him 

353 


THE  AMERICAN 

and  the  gentleman  whose  card  he  had  in  his  pocket  — 
M.  Stanislas  Kapp  of  Strasbourg  —  after  his  return 
to  the  society  of  their  common  hostess.  This  acute 
young  woman  had  espied  an  acquaintance  on  the 
other  side  of  the  house  and  had  expressed  her  dis- 
pleasure at  his  not  having  the  civility  to  come  and 
pay  her  a  visit.  "Oh,  let  him  alone,"  M.  Stanislas 
Kapp  had  hereupon  exclaimed;  "there  are  too 
many  people  in  the  box  already!"  And  he  had 
fixed  his  eyes  on  his  fellow-guest  with  the  utmost 
ferocity.  Valentin  had  promptly  retorted  that  if  there 
were  too  many  people,  in  the  box  it  was  easy  for  M. 
Kapp  to  diminish  the  number.  "I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  open  the  door  for  you!"  M.  Kapp  had 
exclaimed:  "And  I  shall  be  delighted  to  fling  you  into 
the  pit!"  Valentin  had  as  promptly  retorted.  "Oh 
do  make  a  rumpus  and  get  into  the  papers!"  Miss 
Noemie  had  gleefully  ejaculated.  "M.  Kapp,  turn 
him  out;  or,  M.  de  Bellegarde,  pitch  him  into  the  pit, 
into  the  orchestra  —  anywhere!  I  don't  care  who 
does  which,  so  long  as  you  make  a  scene."  Valentin 
had  answered  that  they  would  make  no  scene,  but 
that  the  gentleman  would  be  so  good  as  to  step  into 
the  corridor  with  him.  In  the  corridor,  after  a  brief 
further  exchange  of  words,  there  had  been  an  ex- 
change of  cards.  M.  Stanislas  Kapp  had  pressed  on 
his  intention,  the  flat-faced  imbecile,  with  all  his 
weight;  and  there  were  fifty  tons,  at  the  least,  of  that. 

"Well,  say  there  are !  If  you  had  n't  gone  back 
into  the  box  the  thing  would  n't  have  happened." 

"Why,  don't  you  see,"  Valentin  replied,  "that  the 
event  proves  the  extreme  propriety  of  my  going  back 

354 


THE  AMERICAN 

into  the  box?  M.  Kapp  wished  to  provoke  me;  he 
was  awaiting  his  chance.  In  such  a  case  —  that  is, 
when  he  has  been,  so  to  speak,  notified  —  a  man 
must  be  on  hand  to  receive  the  provocation.  My  not 
returning  would  simply  have  been  tantamount  to  my 
saying  to  M.  Stanislas  Kapp:  'Oh,  if  you  're  going  to 
be  offensive— !'" 

'You  must  manage  it  by  yourself;  damned  if  I  '11 
help  you!'  That  would  have  been  a  thoroughly  sen- 
sible thing  to  say.  The  only  attraction  for  you  seems 
to  have  been  the  idea  that  you  could  help  him,"  New- 
man went  on.  "You  told  me  you  were  not  going 
back  for  that  minx  herself." 

"Oh,  don't  mention  her  ever,  ever  any  more!" 
Valentin  almost  plaintively  sighed.  "She's  really 
quite  a  bad  bore." 

"  With  all  my  heart.  But  if  that 's  the  way  you  feel 
about  her,  why  could  n't  you  let  her  alone  ?" 

Valentin  shook  his  head  with  a  fine  smile.  "I  don't 
think  you  quite  understand,  and  I  don't  believe  I  can 
make  you.  She  understood  the  situation;  she  knew 
what  was  in  the  air;  she  was  watching  us." 

"Then  you  are  doing  it  for  her?"  Newman  railed. 

"  I  'm  doing  it  for  myself,  and  you  must  leave  me 
judge  of  what  concerns  my  honour." 

"Well,  I  '11  leave  you  judge  if  you  '11  leave  me  to 
quite  impartially,  kick  somebody!" 

"  It 's  vain  talking,"  Valentin  replied  to  this. 
"Words  have  passed  and  the  thing  's  settled." 

Newman  turned  away,  taking  his  hat.  Then  paus- 
ing as  if  with  interest,  his  hand  on  the  door:  "You  're 
going  to  use  knives  ?". 

355 


THE  AMERICAN 

"That 's  for  M.  Stanislas  Kapp,  as  the  challenged 
party,  to  decide.  My  own  choice  would  be  a  short, 
light  sword.  I  handle  it  well.  I  'm  an  indifferent 
shot." 

Newman  had  put  on  his  hat;  he  pushed  it  back, 
gently  scratching  his  forehead  high  up.  "I  wish  it  were 
guns,"  he  said.  "I  could  show  you  how  to  hold  one." 

Valentin  gave  him  a  hard  look  and  then  broke  into 
a  laugh.  "Murderer!"  he  cried  with  some  intensity, 
but  agreeing  to  see  him  again  on  the  morrow,  after 
the  details  of  the  meeting  with  M.  Stanislas  Kapp 
should  have  been  arranged. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  Newman  received  three 
lines  from  him  to  the  effect  that  it  had  been  decided 
he  should  cross  the  frontier  with  his  adversary,  and 
that  he  was  accordingly  to  take  the  night  express  to 
Geneva.  They  should  have  time,  however,  to  dine 
together.  In  the  afternoon  Newman  called  on 
Madame  de  Cintre  for  the  single  daily  hour  of  rein- 
voked  and  reasserted  confidence  —  a  solemnity  but 
the  more  exquisite  with  repetition  —  to  which  she 
had,  a  little  strangely,  given  him  to  understand  it  was 
convenient,  important,  in  fact  vital  to  her,  that  their 
communion,  for  their  strained  interval,  should  be 
restricted,  even  though  this  reduced  him  for  so  many 
other  recurrent  hours,  the  hours  of  evening  in  par- 
ticular, the  worst  of  the  probation,  to  the  state  of  a 
restless,  prowling,  time-keeping  ghost,  a  taker  of  long 
night-walks  through  streets  that  affected  him  at 
moments  as  the  alleys  of  a  great  darkened  bankrupt 
bazaar.  But  his  visit  to-day  had  a  worry  to  reckon 
with  —  all  the  more  that  it  had  as  well  so  much  of 

356 


THE  AMERICAN 

one  to  conceal.  She  shone  upon  him,  as  always,  with 
that  light  of  her  gentleness  which  might  have  been 
figured,  in  the  heat-thickened  air,  by  a  sultry  harvest 
moon;  but  she  was  visibly  bedimmed,  and  she  con- 
fessed, on  his  charging  her  with  her  red  eyes,  that  she 
had  been,  for  a  vague  vain  reason,  crying  them  half 
out.  Valentin  had  been  with  her  a  couple  of  hours 
before  and  had  somehow  troubled  her  without  in  the 
least  intending  it.  He  had  laughed  and  gossiped,  had 
brought  her  no  bad  news,  had  only  been,  in  taking 
leave  of  her,  rather  "dearer,"  poor  boy,  than  usual. 
A  certain  extravagance  of  tenderness  in  him  had  in 
fact  touched  her  to  positive  pain,  so  that  on  his 
departure  she  had  burst  into  miserable  tears.  She 
had  felt  as  if  something  strange  and  wrong  were 
hanging  about  them  —  ah,  she  had  had  that  feeling 
in  other  connexions  too;  nervous,  always  nervous,  she 
had  tried  to  reason  away  the  fear,  but  the  effort  had 
only  given  her  a  headache.  Newman  was  of  course 
tongue-tied  on  what  he  himself  knew,  and,  his  powei 
of  simulation  and  his  general  art  of  optimism  break- 
ing down  on  this  occasion  as  if  some  long  needle- 
point had  suddenly  passed,  to  make  him  wince, 
through  the  sole  crevice  of  his  armour,  he  could,  to 
his  high  chagrin,  but  cut  his  call  short.  Before  he 
retreated,  however,  he  asked  if  Valentin  had  seen  his 
mother. 

"Yes;  but  he  did  n't  make  her  cry!" 

It  was  in  Newman's  own  apartments  that  the 
young  man  dined,  having  sent  his  servant  and  his 
effects  to  await  him  at  the  railway  M.  Stanislas 
Kapp  had  positively  declined  to  make  excuses,  and 

357 


THE  AMERICAN 

he  on  his  side  had  obviously  none  to  offer.  Valentin 
had  found  out  with  whom  he  was  dealing,  and  that 
his  adversary  was  the  son  and  heir  of  a  rich  brewer 
of  Strasbourg,  a  youth  sanguineous,  brawny,  bull- 
headed,  and  lately  much  occupied  in  making  ducks 
and  drakes  of  the  paternal  brewery.  Though  passing 
in  a  general  way  for  a  good  companion,  he  had 
already  been  noted  as  apt  to  quarrel  after  dinner  and 
to  be  disposed  then  to  charge  with  his  head  down. 
"Que  voulez-vous  ?"  said  Valentin:  "brought  up  on 
beer  how  could  he  stand  such  champagne  as  Noemie, 
cup-bearer  to  the  infernal  gods,  had  poured  out  for 
him?"  He  had  chosen  the  weapon  known  to  New- 
man as  the  gun.  Valentin  had  an  excellent  appetite: 
he  made  a  point,  in  view  of  his  long  journey,  of  eating 
more  than  usual:  one  of  the  points,  no  doubt,  that  his 
friend  had  accused  him  of  always  needing  to  make. 
He  took  the  liberty  of  suggesting  to  the  latter  the 
difference  of  the  suspicion  of  a  shade  in  the  composi- 
tion of  a  fish-sauce;  he  thought  it  worth  hinting,  with 
precautions,  to  the  cook.  But  Newman  had  no  mind 
for  sauces;  there  was  more  in  the  dish  itself,  the  mix- 
ture now  presented  to  him,  than  he  could  swallow;  he 
was  in  short  "nervous"  to  a  tune  of  which  he  felt 
almost  ashamed  as  he  watched  his  inimitable  friend 
go  through  their  superior  meal  without  skipping  a 
step  or  missing  a  savour;  the  exposure,  the  possible 
sacrifice,  of  so  charming  a  life  on  the  altar  of  a  stupid 
tradition  struck  him  as  intolerably  wrong.  He  exag- 
gerated the  perversity  of  Noemie,  the  ferocity  of 
M.  Kapp,  the  grimness  of  M.  Kapp's  friends,  and 
only  knew  that  he  did  yearn  now  as  a  brother. 

358 


THE  AMERICAN 

"This  sort  of  thing  may  be  all  very  well,"  he  broke 
out  at  last,  "but  I  '11  be  blamed  if  I  see  it.  I  can*', 
stop  you  perhaps,  but  at  least  I  can  swear  at  you 
handsomely.  Take  me  as  doing  so  in  the  most  awful 


terms." 


"My  dear  fellow,  don't  make  a  scene  " —  Valentin 
was  almost  sententious.  "  Scenes  in  these  cases  are  in 
very  bad  taste." 

"Your  duel  itself  is  a  scene,"  Newman  said; 
"a  scene  of  the  most  flagrant  description.  It's 
a  wretched  theatrical  affair.  Why  don't  you  take 
a  band  of  music  with  you  outright  ?  It 's  G —  d — 
barbarous,  and  yet  it 's  G —  d —  effete." 

"Oh,  I  can't  begin  at  this  time  of  day  to  defend  the 
theory  of  duelling,"  the  young  man  blandly  reasoned. 
"  It 's  our  only  resource  at  given  moments,  and  I  hold 
it  a  good  thing.  Quite  apart  from  the  merit  of  the 
cause  in  which  a  meeting  may  take  place,  it  strikes 
a  romantic  note  that  seems  to  me  in  this  age  of  vile 
prose  greatly  to  recommend  it.  It 's  a  remnant  of 
a  higher-tempered  time;  one  ought  to  cling  to  it.  It 's 
a  way  of  more  decently  testifying.  Testify  when  you 
can!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  a  higher-tem- 
pered time,"  Newman  retorted.  "  Because  your  great- 
grandfather liked  to  prance,  is  that  any  reason  for 
you,  who  have  got  beyond  it  ?  For  my  part  I  think  we 
had  better  let  our  temper  take  care  of  itself;  it  gen- 
erally seems  to  me  quite  high  enough;  I  'm  not  more 
of  a  fire-eater  than  most,  but  I  'm  not  afraid  of  being 
too  mild.  If  your  great-grandfather  were  to  make  him- 
self unpleasant  to  me  I  think  I  could  tackle  him  yet." 

359 


THE  AMERICAN 

"My  dear  friend" — Valentin  was  perfectly  patient 
with  him — "you  can't  invent  anything  that  will  take 
the  place  of  satisfaction  for  an  insult.  To  demand  it 
and  to  give  it  are  equally  excellent  arrangements.'2 

"Do  you  call  this  sort  of  thing  satisfaction  ?"  New- 
man groaned.  "  Does  it  satisfy  you  to  put  yourself  at 
ihe  disposal  of  a  bigger  fool  even  than  yourself  ?  I  'd 
see  him  somewhere  first!  Does  it  satisfy  you  that  he 
should  set  up  this  ridiculous  relation  with  you  ?  I  'd 
like  to  see  him  try  anything  of  the  sort  with  me  !  If 
a  man  has  a  bad  intention  on  you  it 's  his  own  affair 
till  it  takes  effect;  but  when  it  does,  give  him  one  in 
the  eye.  If  you  don't  know  how  to  do  that  —  straight 
—  you  're  not  fit  to  go  round  alone.  But  I  'm  talking 
of  those  who  claim  they  are,  and  that  they  don't 
require  some  one  to  take  care  of  them." 

"Well,"  Valentin  smiled,  "it  would  be  interesting 
truly  to  go  round  with  you.  But  to  get  the  full  good 
of  that,  alas,  I  should  have  begun  earlier!" 

Newman  could  scarcely  bear  even  the  possible  per- 
tinence of  his  "  alas."  "  See  here,"  he  said  at  the  last: 
"if  any  one  ever  hurts  you  again  — !" 

"Well,  mon  bon?"  —  and  Valentin,  with  his  eyes 
on  his  friend's,  might  now  have  been  much  moved. 

"  Come  straight  to  me  about  it.    7  '//  go  for  him." 

" M atamore  I"  the  young  man  laughed  as  they 
parted* 


XVIII 

IT  was  the  next  morning  that,  by  exception,  Newmap 
went  to  see  Madame  de  Cintre,  timing  his  visit  so  a«j 
to  arrive  after  the  noonday  breakfast.  In  the  court 
of  the  hotel,  before  the  portico,  stood  Madame  de 
Bellegarde's  old  square  heavy  carriage.  The  servant 
who  opened  the  door  answered  his  enquiry  with  a 
slightly  embarrassed  and  hesitating  murmur,  and  at 
the  same  moment  Mrs.  Bread  appeared  in  the  back- 
ground, dim-visaged  as  usual  and  wearing  a  large 
black  bonnet  and  shawl. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked.  "Is  Madame 
la  Comtesse  at  home  or  not  ?" 

Mrs.  Bread  advanced,  fixing  her  eyes  on  him;  he 
observed  that  she  held  a  sealed  letter,  very  delicately, 
in  her  ringers.  "The  Countess  has  left  a  message  for 
you,  sir;  she  has  left  this."  And  the  good  woman 
held  out  the  missive,  which  he  took. 

"Left  it?    Is  she  out?   Is  she  gone  away?" 

"She  's  going  away,  sir;  she  's  leaving  town,"  said 
Mrs.  Bread. 

"Leaving  town!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  in  the 
world  has  happened  ?" 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  say,  sir."  And  Mrs.  Bread 
cast  her  eyes  to  the  ground.  "  But  I  thought  it  would 


come." 


"What  would  come,  pray?"  Newman  demanded. 
He    had    broken    the    seal    of   the    letter,    but    he 

361 


THE  AMERICAN 

still  questioned.  "She's  in  the  house?  She's  vis- 
ible?" 

"I  don't  think  she  expected  you  this  morning," 
his  venerable  friend  replied.  "She  was  to  leave  im« 
mediately." 

"Where  is  she  going?" 

"To  Fleurieres." 

"Away  off  there?    But  surely  I  can  see  her?" 

Mrs.  Bread  hesitated,  but  then,  clasping  together 
her  black-gloved  hands,  "I'll  take  you!"  she  rather 
desperately  said.  And  she  led  the  way  upstairs.  At 
the  top  of  the  staircase,  however,  she  paused  and 
fixed  her  dry  sad  eyes  on  him.  "  Be  very  easy  with 
her.  Nobody  else  is."  Then  she  went  on  to  Madame 
de  Cintre's  apartment.  Newman,  perplexed  and 
alarmed,  followed  her  fast.  She  threw  open  the  door 
and  he  pushed  back  the  curtain  at  the  further  side 
of  its  deep  embrasure.  In  the  middle  of  the  room 
stood  Madame  de  Cintre;  her  face  was  flushed  and 
marked  and  she  was  dressed  for  travelling.  Behind 
her,  before  the  fireplace,  stood  Urbain  de  Bellegarde 
and  looked  at  his  finger-nails;  near  the  Marquis  sat 
his  mother,  buried  in  an  armchair  and  with  her  eyes 
immediately  fixing  themselves  on  the  invader,  as  he 
felt  them  pronounce  him.  He  knew  himself,  as  he 
entered,  in  the  presence  of  something  evil;  he  was 
as  startled  and  pained  as  he  would  have  been  by 
a  threatening  cry  in  the  stillness  of  the  night.  He 
walked  straight  to  Madame  de  Cintre  and  seized  her 
by  the  hand. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  commandingly; 
"what 's  happening  ?" 

362 


THE  AMERICAN 

Urbam  de  Bellegarde  stareds  then  left  his  place 
and  came  and  leaned  on  the  back  of  his  mother's 
chair.  Newman's  sudden  irruption  had  evidently 
discomposed  them  both.  Madame  de  Cintre  stood 
silent  and  with  her  eyes  resting  on  her  friend's. 
She  had  often  looked  ai:  him  with  all  her  soul,  as  it 
seemed  to  him;  but  in  this  present  gaze  there  was 
a  bottomless  depth.  She  was  in  distress,  and  —  mon- 
strously —  was  somehow  to  her  own  sense  helpless. 
It  would  have  been  the  most  touching  thing  he  had 
ever  seen  if  it  had  n't  been  the  most  absurd.  His 
heart  rose  into  his  throat  and  he  was  on  the  point  of 
turning  to  her  companions  with  an  angry  challenge; 
but  she  checked  him,  pressing  the  hand  of  which  she 
had  possessed  herself. 

"  Something  very  grave  has  happened,"  she  brought 
out.  "I  can't  marry  you." 

Newman  dropped  her  hand  —  as  if,  suddenly  and 
unnaturally  acting  with  the  others,  she  had  planted 
a  knife  in  his  side:  he  stood  staring,  first  at  her  and 
then  at  them.  "Why  not  ?"  he  asked  as  quietly  as  his 
quick  gasp  permitted. 

Madame  de  Cintre  almost  smiled,  but  the  attempt 
was  strange.  "You  must  ask  my  mother.  You  must 
ask  my  ,brother." 

"Why  can't  she  marry  me  ?"  —  and  he  looked  all 
at  them. 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  never  moved  in  her  seat, 
but  her  consciousness  had  paled  her  face.  The  Mar- 
quis hovered  protectingly.  She  said  nothing  for  some 
moments,  but  she  kept  her  keen  clear  eyes  on 
their  visitor.  The  Marquis  drew  himself  up  and  eon- 

3°3 


THE  AMERICAN 

jidered    the    ceiling.    "It's    impossible!"   he   finely 
articulated. 

"It's  improper,"  said  Madame  de  Bellegarde. 

Newman  began  to  laugh.  "Oh,  you 're  fooling!" 
he  exclaimed. 

"My  sister,  you've  no  time;  you're  losing  your 
train,"  the  Marquis  went  on. 

"Come,  is  he  mad?"  Newman  asked. 

"No;  don't  think  that,"  said  Madame  de  Cintre. 
"But  I'm  going  away." 

"Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"To  the  country;  to  Fleurieres;  to  be  alone." 

"To  leave  me  alone  ?"  Newman  put  it. 

"I  can't  see  you  now,"  she  simply  answered. 

"'Now'  —  why  not?" 

"I  'm  ashamed,"  she  still  more  simply  confessed. 

Newman  turned  to  the  Marquis.  "What  have  you 
done  to  her  —  what  does  it  mean?"  he  asked  with 
the  same  effort  at  calmness,  the  fruit  of  his  constant 
practice  in  taking  things  easily.  He  was  excited,  but 
excitement  with  him  was  only  an  intenser  deliberate- 
ness;  it  was  the  plunger  stripped. 

"  It  means  that  I  've  given  you  up,"  said  Madame 
de  Cintre.  "It  means  that." 

Her  appearance  was  too  charged  with  tragic  ex 
pression  not  fully  to  confirm  her  words.  Newman 
was  profoundly  shocked,  but  he  felt  as  yet  no  re- 
sentment against  her.  He  was  amazed,  bewildered, 
and  the  presence  of  the  Marquise  and  her  son 
seemed  to  smite  his  eyes  like  the  glare  of  a  watch- 
man's lantern.  "Can't  I  see  you  alone?"  he 
asked. 


THE  AMERICAN 

"If  would  be  only  more  painful.  I  hoped  I 
should  n't  see  you  —  that  I  should  escape.  I  wrote 
to  you,  but  only  three  words.  Good-bye."  And  she 
put  out  her  hand  again. 

Newman  put  both  his  own  into  his  pockets.  "I  '11 
simply  go  with  you." 

She  laid  her  two  hands  on  his  arm.  "Will  you 
grant  me  a  last  request?" —  and  as  she  looked  at 
him,  urging  this,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Let  me 
go  alone — let  me  go  in  peace.  Peace  I  say — though 
it 's  really  death.  But  let  me  bury  myself.  So  — 
good-bye." 

Newman  passed  his  hand  into  his  hair  and  stood 
slowly  rubbing  his  head  and  looking  through  his 
keenly-narrowed  eyes  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
three  persons  before  him.  His  lips  were  compressed, 
and  the  two  strong  lines  formed  beside  his  mouth 
and  riding  hard,  as  it  were,  his  restive  moustache, 
might  have  at  first  suggested  a  wide  grimace.  I  have 
said  that  his  excitement  was  an  intenser  deliberate- 
ness,  and  now  his  deliberation  was  grim.  "It  seems 
very  much  as  if  you  had  interfered,  Marquis,"  he 
said  slowly.  "  I  thought  you  said  you  would  n't  inter- 
fere. I  know  you  did  n't  like  me;  but  that  does  n't 
make  any  difference.  I  thought  you  promised  me  yor 
would  n't  interfere.  I  thought  you  swore  on  you* 
honour  that  you  would  n't  interfere.  Don't  you  re- 
member, Marquis  ?" 

The  Marquis  lifted  his  eyebrows,  but  he  was 
apparently  determined  to  be  even  more  urbane  than 
usual.  He  rested  his  two  hands  upon  the  back  of  his 
mother's  chair  and  bent  forward  as  if  he  were  lean- 

365 


THE  AMERICAN 

ing  over  the  edge  of  a  pulpit  or  a  lecture-desk.  He 
didn't  smile,  but  he  looked  softly  grave.  "Pardon 
me,  sir  —  what  I  assured  you  was  that  I  would  n't 
influence  my  sister's  decision.  I  adhered  to  the  letter 
to  my  engagement.  Did  I  not,  my  sister  ?" 

"Don't  appeal,  my  son,"  said  the  Marquise. 
"Your  word  's  all  sufficient." 

"Yes  —  she  accepted  me,"  said  Newman. 
"That 's  very  true;  I  can't  deny  that.  At  least,"  he 
added  in  a  different  tone  while  he  turned  to  Madame 
de  Cintre,  "you  did  accept  me  ?"  The  effect  of  deep 
irony  in  it  —  even  if  there  had  been  nothing  else  — 
appeared  to  move  her  strongly,  and  she  turned  away, 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  But  you  Jve  inter- 
fered now,  have  n't  you  ?"  he  went  on  to  the  Mar- 
quis. 

"Neither  then  nor  now  have  I  attempted  to  influ- 
ence my  sister.  I  used  no  persuasion  then  —  I  've 
used  no  persuasion  to-day." 

"And  what  have  you  used  ?" 

"We  've  used  authority,"  said  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  in  a  rich,  bell-like  voice. 

"Ah,  you've  used  authority!"  Newman  won- 
derfully echoed.  'They've  used  authority — "  He 
turned  to  Madame  de  Cintre.  "What  in  the  world  is 
their  authority  and  how  do  they  apply  it  ?" 

"My  mother  addressed  me  her  command,"  Ma- 
dame de  Cintre  said  with  a  sound  that  was  the 
strangest  yet. 

"Her  command  that  you   should  give  me  up — 
I    see.    And   you   obey  —  I    see.    But  why  do  you 
obey?"  Newman  pursued. 

366 


THE  AMERICAN 

Madame  de  Cintre  looked  across  at  the  old  Mar- 
quise, measuring  her  from  head  to  foot.  Then  she 
spoke  again  with  simplicity.  "I  'm  afraid  of  my 
mother." 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  rose  with  a  certain  quick- 
ness. "This  is  a  most  indecent  scene!" 

"I  've  no  wish  to  prolong  it,"  said  Madame  de 
Cintre;  and,  turning  to  the  door,  she  put  out  her 
hand  again.  "  If  you  can  pity  me  a  little,  let  me  go 
alone." 

Newman  held  her  quietly  and  firmly.  "I  '11  come 
right  down  there."  The  portiere  dropped  behind 
her,  and  he  sank  with  a  long  breath  into  the  nearest 
chair.  He  leaned  back  in  it,  resting  his  hands  on  the 
knobs  of  the  arms  and  looking  at  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  and  Urbain.  There  was  a  long  silence.  They 
stood  side  by  side,  their  heads  high  and  their  hand- 
some eyebrows  arched.  "So  you  make  a  distinc- 
tion ?"  he  went  on  at  last.  "You  make  a  distinction 
between  persuading  and  commanding  ?  It 's  very 
neat.  But  the  distinction  's  in  favour  of  command- 
ing. That  rather  spoils  it." 

"We  've  not  the  least  objection  to  defining  our 
position,"  said  M.  de  Bellegarde.  "We  quite  under- 
stand that  it  should  n't  at  first  appear  to  you  alto- 
gether clear.  We  rather  expect  indeed  that  you  '11 
not  do  us  justice." 

"Oh,  I  '11  do  you  justice,"  said  Newman.  "Don't 
be  afraid.  Only  give  me  a  chance!" 

The  Marquise  laid  her  hand  on  her  son's  arm  as  if 
to  deprecate  the  attempt  to  marshal  reasons  or  to 
meet  their  friend  again,  on  any  ground,  too  irui- 

367 


THE  AMERICAN 

mately.  "It's  quite  useless,"  she  opined,  "to  try 
and  arrange  this  matter  so  as  to  make  it  agreeable 
to  you.  It 's  a  disappointment,  and  disappointments 
are  —  I  grant  it  —  sometimes  odious  things.  I 
thought  our  necessity  over  —  that  of  letting  you  know 
that  we  don't  after  all  see  our  way!  I  considered 
carefully  and  tried  to  arrange  it  better;  but  I  only 
gave  myself  bad  headaches  and  lost  my  sleep.  Say 
what  we  will  you  '11  think  yourself  ill-treated  and  will 
publish  your  wrong  among  your  friends.  But  we  're 
not  afraid  of  that.  Besides,  your  friends  are  not  our 
friends,  and  it  will  matter  by  so  much  the  less.  Think 
of  us  as  you  like  —  you  don't  really  know  us.  I  only 
beg  you  not  to  be  violent.  I  've  never  in  my  life  been 
present  at  any  sort  of  roughness,  and  I  think  my  age 
should  now  protect  me." 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  say?"  asked  Newman, 
slowly  rising  from  his  chair.  "That's  a  poor  show 
for  a  clever  lady  like  you,  Marquise.  Come,  try 
again." 

"My  mother  goes  to  the  point  with  her  usual 
honesty  and  intrepidity,"  said  the  Marquis,  toying 
with  his  watchguard.  "  But  it 's  perhaps  right 
I  should  add  another  word.  We  of  course  quite  re- 
pudiate the  charge  of  having  broken  faith  with  you. 
We  left  you  entirely  at  liberty  to  make  yourself  agree- 
able to  my  sister.  We  left  her  quite  at  liberty  to 
entertain  your  proposal.  When  she  accepted  you  we 
said  nothing.  We  therefore  wholly  observed  our 
promise.  It  was  only  at  a  later  stage  of  the  affair, 
and  on  quite  a  different  basis,  as  it  were,  that  we 
determined  to  speak.  It  would  have  been  better  per- 

368 


THE  AMERICAN 

haps  if  we  had  spoken  before.  But  really,  you  see. 
nothing  has  yet  been  done." 

"Nothing  has  yet  been  done?" —  Newman  re- 
peated the  words  as  if  unconscious  of  their  comical 
effect.  He  had  lost  the  sense  of  what  the  Marquis 
was  saying;  M.  de  Bellegarde's  superior  style  was 
a  mere  humming  in  his  ears.  All  he  understood,  in 
his  deep  and  simple  wrath,  was  that  the  matter  was 
not  a  violent  joke  and  that  the  people  before  him 
were  perfectly  serious.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  can  take 
this  from  you?"  he  wonderingly  asked.  "Do  you 
suppose  it  can  matter  to  me  what  you  say  ?  Do 
you  suppose  I  'm  an  idiot  that  you  can  so  put 
off?" 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  gave  a  rattle  of  her  fan  in 
the  hollow  of  her  hand.  "  If  you  don't  take  it  you  can 
leave  it,  sir.  It  matters  very  little  what  you  do.  The 
simple  fact  is  that  my  daughter  has  given  you  up." 

"  She  does  n't  mean  it,"  Newman  declared  after 
a  moment. 

"I  think  I  can  assure  you  that  she  does,"  the  Mar- 
quis fluted. 

"  Poor  stricken  woman,  poor  bleeding  heart,  what 
damnable  thing  have  you  done  to  her?"  Newman 
demanded. 

"Gently,  gently!"  murmured  M.  de  Bellegarde  as 
he  rocked  on  his  neat  foundations. 

"  She  told  you,"  his  mother  said.  "  I  expressed  my 
final  wish." 

Newman  shook  his  head  heavily.  "This  sort  of 
thing  can't  be,  you  know.  A  man  can't  be  used  in 
this  fashion.  You  not^only  have  nc  right  that  is  n't 

369 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  preposterous  pretence,  but  you  have  n't  a  penny- 
worth of  power." 

"My  power,"  Madame  de  Bellegarde  observed, 
"is  in  my  children's  obedience." 

"  In  their  fear,  your  daughter  said.  There  's  some- 
thing very  strange  in  it.  Why  should  any  one  be 
afraid  of  you  ?"  added  Newman  after  looking  at  her 
a  moment.  "There  has  been  something  at  play  I  don't 
know  and  can't  guess." 

She  met  his  gaze  without  flinching  and  as  if  neither 
hearing  nor  heeding.  "I  did  my  best,"  she  said  qui- 
etly. "I  could  bear  it  no  longer." 

"  It  was  a  bold  experiment ! "  the  Marquis  pursued. 

Newman  felt  disposed  to  walk  to  him  and  clutch 
his  neck  with  irresistible  firm  fingers  and  a  prolonga- 
tion of  thumb-pressure  on  the  windpipe.  "I  need  n't 
tell  you  how  you  strike  me,"  he  said,  however,  instead 
of  this;  "of  course  you  know  that.  But  I  should 
think  you  'd  be  afraid  of  your  friends  —  all  those 
people  you  introduced  me  to  the  other  night.  There 
were  some  decent  people  apparently  among  them; 
you  may  depend  upon  it  there  were  some  good, 
honest  men  and  women." 

"Our  friends  approve  us,"  said  M.  de  Bellegarde; 
"there's  not  a  responsible  chef  de  jamille  among 
them  who  wduld  have  acted  otherwise.  And  however 
that  may  be  we  take  the  cue  from  no  one.  We  've 
been  much  more  used  —  since  one  really  has  to  tell 
you  —  to  setting  the  example  than  to  waiting  for  it." 

"You'd  have  waited  long  before  any  one  would 
have  set  you  such  an  example  as  this,  I  guess!" 
Newman  cried.  "Have  I  done  anything  wrong  01 

370 


THE  AMERICAN 

mean  or  base  ?"  he  rang  out.  "Have  I  given  you  any 
reason  to  change  your  opinion  ?  Have  you  found  out 
anything  against  me?  Hanged  if  I  can  imagine!" 

"Our  opinion,"  said  Madame  de  Bellegarde,  "is 
quite  the  same  as  at  first  —  exactly.  We  S  e  no  ill- 
will  towards  yourself;  we  're  very  far  from  accusing 
you  of  misconduct.  Since  your  relations  with  us 
began  you  've  been,  I  frankly  confess,  less  eccentric 
than  I  expected.  It 's  not  your  personal  character 
that  we  object  to,  it 's  your  professional  —  it 's  your 
antecedents.  We  really  can't  reconcile  ourselves  to 
a  commercial  person.  We  tried  to  believe  in  an  evil 
hour  it  was  possible,  and  that  effort  was  our  great 
misfortune.  We  determined  to  persevere  to  the  end 
and  to  give  you  every  advantage.  I  was  resolved  you 
should  have  no  reason  to  accuse  me  of  a  want  of 
loyalty.  We  let  the  thing  certainly  go  very  far  — 
we  introduced  you  to  our  friends.  To  tell  the  truth 
it  was  that,  I  think,  that  broke  me  down.  I  suc- 
cumbed to  the  scene  that  took  place  the  other  night 
in  these  rooms.  You  must  pardon  me  if  what  I  say 
is  disagreeable  to  you,  but  you  Ve  insisted,  with 
violence,  on  an  explanation." 

"There's  no  better  proof  of  our  good  faith,"  the 
Marquis  superadded,  "than  our  committing  our- 
selves to  you  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  three  evenings 
since.  We  endeavoured  to  bind  ourselves  —  to  tie 
our  hands  and  cut  off  our  retreat.  Could  we  have 
done  more  ? " 

"But  it  was  that,"  his  mother  subjoined,  "that 
opened  our  eyes  and  broke  our  bonds.  We  should 
have  been  deeply  uncomfortable  with  any  such  coi> 

371 


THE  AMERICAN 

tinuance.  You  know/'  she  wound  up  in  a  moment, 
"that  you  were  forewarned  as  to  our  high,  stiff  way 
of  carrying  ourselves.  Oh,  I  grant  you  that  we  're 
as  proud  and  odious  as  you  please!  But  we  didn't 
seek  your  acquaintance.  You  sought  ours." 

Newman  took  up  his  hat  and  began  mechanically 
to  smooth  it;  the  very  fierceness  of  his  scorn  kept 
him  from  speaking.  "You  're  certainly  odious 
enough,"  he  cried  at  last,  "but  it  strikes  me  your 
pride  falls  short  altogether." 

"In  the  whole  matter,"  said  the  Marquis,  still  as 
with  a  fine  note  of  cool  reason,  "  I  really  see  nothing 
but  our  humility." 

"Let  us  have  no  more  painful  discussion  than  is 
necessary,"  his  mother  resumed.  "  My  daughter  told 
you  everything  when  she  said  she  gives  you  up." 

"I  'm  not  in  the  least  satisfied  about  your  daugh- 
ter," Newman  insisted:  "I  want  to  know  what  you  did 
to  her.  It 's  all  very  easy  talking  about  authority  and 
saying  she  likes  your  orders.  She  did  n't  accept  me 
blindly  and  she  would  n't  give  me  up  blindly.  Not 
that  I  believe  yet  she  has  really  done  it  after  what 
has  passed  between  us;  she'll  talk  it  over  with  me. 
But  you  've  frightened  her,  you  've  bullied  her, 
you  *ve  hurt  her.  What  was  it  you  did  to  her  ?" 

"I  had  very  little  to  do,"  said  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  in  a  tone  which  gave  him  a  chill  when  he  after- 
wards remembered  it. 

"Let  me  remind  you  that  we  offered  you  this 
amount  of  consideration,"  the  Marquis  observed, 
"with  the  express  understanding  that  you  should 
abstain  from  intemperance." 

372 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  'm  not  intemperate,"  Newman  answered;  "it 's 
you  who  are  intemperate.  You  stab  me  in  the  back 
and  I  turn  on  you;  is  it  /  who  am  offensive?  But 
I  don't  know  that  I  Ve  much  more  to  say  to  you. 
What  you  expect  of  me,  apparently,  is  to  go  on  my 
way  —  in  the  manner  most  convenient  to  you  — 
thanking  you  for  favours  received  and  promising 
never  to  trouble  you  again." 

"We  expect  of  you  to  act  like  an  homme  dj  esprit" 
said  Madame  de  Bellegarde.  "You  Ve  shown  your- 
self remarkably  that,  already,  and  what  we  've  done 
is  altogether  based  upon  your  being  so.  When  one 
must  recognise  a  situation  —  well,  one  must.  That 's 
all  that  we  Ve  done.  Since  my  daughter  absolutely 
withdraws,  what  do  you  gain  by  making  a  noise 
under  our  windows  ?  You  proclaim,  at  the  best,  your 
discomfiture." 

"  It  remains  to  be  seen  if  your  daughter  absolutely 
withdraws.  Your  daughter  and  I  are  still  very  good 
friends;  nothing  's  changed  in  that.  As  I  say,  there 
has  been  that  between  us  that  must  make  her  re- 
cognise at  least  my  claim  to  some  light  of  mercy  from 
her." 

"I  recommend  you  in  your  own  interest  not  to 
expect  more  than  you  '11  get,"  the  Marquis  returned 
with  firmness.  "I  know  her  well  enough  to  know 
that  a  meaning  signified  as  she  just  now  signified 
hers  to  you  is  final.  Besides,  she  has  given  me  her 
word." 

"I've  no  doubt  her  word's  worth  a  great  deal 
more  than  your  own,"  said  Newman.  "Nevertheless 
I  don't  give  her  up.". 

373 


THE  AMERICAN 

"There  *s  nothing  of  course  to  prevent  your  saying 
so!  But  if  she  won't  even  see  you  —  and  she  won't  — 
your  constancy  must  remain  very  much  on  your 
hands." 

Newman  feigned  in  truth  a  greater  confidence  than 
he  felt.  Madame  de  Cintre's  strange  intensity  had 
really  struck  a  chill  to  his  heart;  her  face,  still  im- 
pressed on  his  vision,  had  been  a  terrible  image  of 
deep  renunciation.  He  felt  sick  and  suddenly  help- 
less. He  turned  away  and  stood  a  moment  with  his 
hand  on  the  door;  then  he  faced  about  and,  after  the 
briefest  hesitation,  broke  out  with  another  accent. 
"  Come,  think  of  what  this  must  be  to  me,  and  leave 
her  to  herself  and  to  the  man  whom,  before  God 
I  believe,  she  loves !  Why  should  you  object  to  me  — 
what's  the  matter  with  me?  I  can't  hurt  you, 
I  would  n't  if  I  could.  I  'm  the  most  unobjectionable 
man  in  the  world.  What  if  I  am  a  commercial  person  ? 
What  under  the  sun  do  you  mean  ?  A  commercial 
person  ?  I  '11  be  any  sort  of  person  you  want.  I  never 
talked  to  you  about  business  —  where  on  earth  does 
it  come  in  ?  Let  her  go  and  I  '11  ask  no  questions. 
I  '11  take  her  away  and  you  shall  never  see  me  or 
hear  of  me  again.  I  '11  stay  in  America  if  you  like. 
I  '11  sign  a  paper  promising  never  to  come  back  to 
Europe.  All  I  want  is  not  to  lose  her!" 

His  companions  exchanged  a  glance  of  mutual 
re-enforcement,  and  Urbain  said:  "My  dear  sir,  what 
you  propose  is  hardly  an  improvement.  We  've  not 
the  slightest  objection  to  seeing  you,  as  an  amiable 
foreigner,  and  we  've  every  reason  for  not  wishing  to 
be  eternally  separated  from  my  sister.  We  object 

374 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  her  marriage;  and  in  that  way"  —  M.  de  Belle- 
garde  gave  a  small,  thin  laugh  —  "she'd  be  more 
married  than  ever." 

"Well  then,"  Newman  presently  broke  out  again, 
"where's  this  interesting  place  of  yours — Fleurieres  ? 
I  know  it 's  near  some  old  city  on  a  hill." 

"Precisely.  Poitiers  is  on  a  hill,"  the  Marquise 
admitted.  "I  don't  know  exactly  how  old  it  is. 
We  're  not  afraid  to  tell  you." 

"  It 's  Poitiers,  is  it  ?  Very  good,"  said  Newman. 
"I  shall  immediately  follow  Madame  de  Cintre." 

"The  trains  after  this  hour  won't  serve  you," 
Urbain  appeared  to  judge  it  his  duty  to  mention. 

"I  shall  then  hire  a  special  train." 

"That  will  be  a  very  foolish  waste  of  money," 
said  Madame  de  Bellegarde. 

"It  will  be  time  enough  to  talk  about  waste  three 
days  hence,"  Newman  answered;  with  which,  clap- 
ping his  hat  on  his  head,  he  departed. 

He  didn't  immediately  start  for  Fleurieres;  he 
was  too  stunned  and  wounded  for  consecutive  action. 
He  simply  walked;  he  walked  straight  before  him. 
following  the  river  till  he  got  out  of  the  stony  circle 
of  Paris.  He  had  a  burning,  tingling  sense  of  personal 
outrage.  He  had  never  in  his  life  received  so  absolute 
a  check;  he  had  never  been  pulled  up,  or,  as  he 
would  have  said,  "let  down,"  so  short,  and  he  found 
the  sensation  intolerable  as  he  strode  along  tapping 
the  trees  and  lamp-posts  fiercely  with  his  stick  and 
inwardly  raging.  To  lose  such  a  woman  after  taking 
such  jubilant  and  triumphant  possession  of  her  was 
as  great  an  affront  to  his  pride  as  it  was  an  injury 

375 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  his  happiness.  And  to  lose  her  by  the  interference 
and  the  dictation  of  others,  by  an  impudent  old  hag's 
and  a  pretentious  coxcomb's  stepping  in  with  their 
"authority"!  It  was  too  preposterous,  it  was  too 
pitiful.  Upon  what  he  deemed  the  unblushing 
treachery  of  the  Bellegardes  he  wasted  little  thought; 
he  consigned  it  once  for  all  to  eternal  perdition.  But 
the  treachery  of  Madame  de  Cintre  herself  amazed 
and  confounded  him;  there  was  a  key  to  the  mystery, 
of  course,  but  he  groped  for  it  in  vain.  Only  three 
days  had  elapsed  since  she  stood  beside  him  in  the 
starlight,  beautiful  and  tranquil  as  the  trust  with 
which  he  had  inspired  her,  and  told  him  she  was 
happy  in  the  prospect  of  their  marriage.  What  was 
the  meaning  of  the  change  ?  of  what  infernal  potion 
had  she  tasted  ?  He  had,  however,  a  terrible  appre- 
hension that  she  had  really  changed.  His  very  admi- 
ration for  her  attached  the  idea  of  force  and  weight 
to  her  rupture.  But  he  did  n't  rail  at  her  as  false,  for 
he  was  sure  she  was  unhappy.  In  his  walk  he  had 
crossed  one  of  the  bridges  of  the  Seine,  and  he  still 
followed  unheedingly  the  long  and  unbroken  quay. 
He  had  left  Paris  behind  and  was  almost  in  the 
country;  he  was  in  the  pleasant  suburb  of  Auteuil. 
He  stopped  at  last,  looked  about  at  it  without  seeing 
or  caring  for  its  pleasantness,  and  then  slowly  turned 
round  and  at  a  slower  pace  retraced  his  steps.  When 
he  came  abreast  of  the  fantastic  embankment  known 
as  the  Trocadero  he  reflected,  through  his  throbbing 
pain,  that  he  was  near  Mrs.  Tristram's  dwelling  and 
that  Mrs.  Tristram,  on  particular  occasions,  had 
much  of  a  woman's  kindness  in  her  chords.  He  felt 


THE  AMERICAN 

he  needed  to  pour  out  his  ire,  and  he  took  the  road 
to  her  house.  She  was  at  home  and  alone,  and  as 
soon  as  she  had  looked  at  him,  on  his  entering  the 
room,  she  told  him  she  knew  what  he  had  come  for. 
He  sat  down  heavily,  in  silence,  with  his  eyes  on  her. 

"They  've  backed  out!"  she  said  without  his  even 
needing  to  tell  her.  "Well,  you  may  think  it  strange, 
but  I  felt  something  the  other  night  in  the  air." 
Presently  he  gave  her  his  account;  she  listened  while 
her  whole  face  took  it  in.  When  he  had  finished  she 
said  quietly:  "They  want  her  to  marry  Lord  Deep- 
mere."  Newman  stared  —  he  did  n't  know  she  knew 
anything  about  Lord  Deepmere.  "  But  I  don't  think 
she  will,"  Mrs.  Tristram  added. 

"She  marry  that  poor  little  cub!"  cried  Newman. 
"Oh  Lord  save  us!  And  yet  why  else  can  she  have 
so  horribly  treated  me?" 

"  But  that  is  n't  the  only  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Tris- 
tram. "They  really  could  n't  live  with  you  any  longer. 
They  had  overrated  their  courage.  I  must  say,  to 
give  the  devil  his  due,  that  there  's  something  rather 
fine  in  that.  It  was  your  commercial  quality  in  the 
abstract,  and  the  mere  historic  facts  of  your  wash- 
tubs  and  other  lucrative  wares,  that  they  could  n't 
swallow.  That 's  really  consistent  —  the  inconsist- 
ency had  been  the  other  way.  They  wanted  your 
money,  but  they  Ve  given  you  up  for  an  idea/' 

Newman  frowned  most  ruefully  and  took  up  his 
hat  again.  "I  thought  you'd  encourage  me!"  he 
brought  out  with  almost  juvenile  sadness. 

"  Pardon  my  trying  to  understand  —  of  course  it 
doesn't  concern  you  to  understand,"  she  answered 

377 


THE  AMERICAN 

very  gently.  "I  feel  none  the  less  sorry  for  you, 
especially  as  I  'm  at  the  bottom  of  your  troubles. 
I  've  not  forgotten  that  I  suggested  the  marriage  to 
you.  I  don't  believe  Claire  has  any  intention  of  con- 
senting to  marry  Lord  Deepmere.  It 's  true  he  's  not 
younger  than  she,  as  he  might  pass  for  being.  He  's 
thirty-three  years  old;  I  looked  in  the  Peerage 
But  no  —  I  can't  believe  her  so  hideously,  cruelly 
false."' 

"Please  say  nothing  against  her!"  Newman 
strangely  cried. 

"Poor  woman,"  she  none  the  less  continued,  "she 
is  cruel.  But  of  course  you  '11  go  after  her  and  you  '11 
plead  powerfully.  Do  you  know  that  as  you  are  now," 
Mrs.  Tristram  added  with  characteristic  audacity  of 
comment,  "you  're  extremely  eloquent,  even  without 
speaking  ?  To  resist  you  a  woman  must  have  a  very 
fixed  idea  or  a  very  bad  conscience.  I  wish  I  had  done 
you  a  wrong  —  that  you  might  come  to  me  and  make 
me  so  feel  it;  and  feel  you,  dear  man,  just  you." 
She  looked  at  him  an  instant,  then  had  one  of  her 
odd  little  outbreaks.  "You  're  lamentable  —  you  're 
splendid!  Go  to  Madame  de  Cintre,  at  any  rate,  and 
tell  her  that  she's  a  puzzle  even  to  one  of  the  intelli- 
gent, like  me,  who  so  greatly  admires  her.  I  'm  very 
curious  to  see  how  far  family  discipline  in  a  fine  case 
like  this  does  go." 

Newman  sat  a  while  longer,  leaning  his  elbows  on 
his  knees  and  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  Mrs.  Tris- 
tram continued  to  temper  charity  with  reason  and 
compassion  with  criticism.  At  last  she  inquired: 
"And  what  does  Count  Valentin  say  to  it?"  New- 

378 


THE  AMERICAN 

man  started;  he  had  not  thought  of  Valentin  and  his 
errand  on  the  Swiss  frontier  since  the  morning. 
The  reflexion  made  him  restless  again,  and  he  broke 
away  on  a  promise  that  his  hostess  should  have  with- 
out delay  his  next  news.  He  went  straight  to  his 
apartment,  where,  on  the  table  in  the  vestibule,  he 
found  a  waiting  telegram.  "I  'm  seriously  ill  and 
should  be  glad  to  see  you  as  soon  as  possible. — VAL- 
ENTIN." He  had  a  savage  groan  for  this  miserable 
news  and  for  the  interruption  of  his  journey  to  Fleur- 
ieres.  But  he  addressed  to  Madame  de  Cintre  a 
brief,  the  briefest,  statement  of  these  things;  it  formed 
a  response  as  well  to  the  ten  words  of  the  note  that 
had  come  to  him  by  Mrs.  Bread,  and  was  now  all 
the  time  allowed  him. 

"  I  don't  give  you  up  and  don't  really  believe  you 
speak  your  own  intention.  I  don't  understand  it,  but 
am  sure  we  shall  clear  it  up  together.  I  can't  follow 
you  to-day,  as  I'm  called  to  see  a  friend  at  a  distance 
who  's  very  ill,  perhaps  dying.  Why  should  n't  I  tell 
you  he 's  your  brother  ?  —  C.  N." 


XIX 

HE  had  a  rare  gift  for  sitting  still  when  nothing  else 
would  serve,  and  rare  was  his  opportunity  to  use  it 
on  his  journey  to  Switzerland.  The  successive  hours 
of  the  night  brought  him  no  sleep;  but  he  kept  motion- 
less in  his  corner  of  the  railway-carriage,  his  eyes 
closed,  and  the  most  observant  of  his  fellow-travellers 
might  have  envied  him  his  apparent  rest.  Toward 
morning  rest  really  came,  as  an  effect  of  mental 
rather  than  of  physical  fatigue.  He  slept  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  and  at  last,  waking,  found  his  eyes  attach 
themselves  to  one  of  the  snow-powdered  peaks  of  the 
Jura,  behind  which  the  sky  was  just  reddening  with 
the  dawn.  But  he  took  in  neither  the  cold  mountain 
nor  the  warm  light:  his  consciousness  began  to 
throb  again,  on  the  very  instant,  with  a  sense  of  his 
wrong.  He  got  out  of  the  train  half  an  hour  before 
it  reached  Geneva  —  alighted  in  the  pale  early  glow 
and  at  the  station  indicated  in  Valentin's  telegram 
A  drowsy  station-master  was  on  the  platform  with 
a  lantern  and  the  hood  of  his  overcoat  over  his 
head,  and  near  him  stood  a  gentleman  who  advanced 
to  meet  Newman.  This  personage,  a  man  of  about 
forty,  showed  a  tall  lean  figure,  a  long  brown  face, 
marked  eyebrows,  high  moustaches  and  fresh  light 
gloves.  He  took  off  his  hat,  looking  very  grave,  and 
articulated, "Monsieur!"  To  which  our  hero  replied: 
11  You've  been  acting,  in  this  tragedy,  for  the  Count  ?" 

380 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  unite  with  you  in  having  been  chosen  for  that 
sad  honour,"  said  the  gentleman.  "I  had  placed 
myself  at  M.  de  Bellegarde's  service  in  this  melan- 
choly affair,  together  with  M.  de  Grosjoyaux,  who 
is  now  at  his  bedside.  M.  de  Grosjoyaux,  I  believe, 
has  had  the  honour  of  meeting  you  in  Paris,  but  as 
he  is  a  better  nurse  than  I,  he  remained  with  our 
poor  friend.  Bellegarde  has  been  eagerly  expecting 
you." 

"And  how  is  the  rascal?"  said  Newman.  "He 
was  badly  hit  ?" 

"The  doctor  has  condemned  him;  we  brought  a 
surgeon  with  us.  But  he  will  die  in  the  best  senti- 
ments. I  sent  last  evening  for  the  cure  of  the  nearest 
French  village,  who  spent  an  hour  with  him.  The 
cure  was  quite  satisfied." 

"Heaven  forgive  us!"  groaned  Newman.  "I  'd 
rather  the  surgeon  were  so!  And  can  he  see  me  — 
shall  he  know  me  ?" 

"When  I  left  him,  half  an  hour  ago,  he  had  fallen 
asleep  —  after  a  feverish,  wakeful  night.  But  we 
shall  see."  And  this  companion  proceeded  to  lead 
the  way  out  of  the  station  to  the  village,  explaining 
as  he  went  that  the  little  party  was  lodged  in  the 
humblest  of  Swiss  inns,  where,  however,  they  ha<* 
succeeded  in  making  M.  de  Bellegarde  much  more 
comfortable  than  could  at  first  have  been  expected. 
"We're  old  companions-in-arms,"  the  personage 
said;  "it 's  not  the  first  time  one  of  us  has  helped  the 
other  to  lie  easy.  It's  a  very  nasty  wound,  and  the 
nastiest  thing  about  it  is  that  Valentin's  adversary 
was  no  shot.  He  put  his  beastly  bullet  where  he 

381 


THE  AMERICAN 

could.    It  entered,  accursedly,  our  poor  friend's  left 
side,  just  below  the  heart." 

As  they  picked  their  way,  in  the  grey,  deceptive 
dawn,  between  the  manure-heaps  of  the  village  street, 
Newman's  new  acquaintance  narrated  the  particu- 
lars of  the  meeting.  The  conditions  had  been  that 
if  the  first  exchange  of  shots  should  fail  to  satisfy  one 
of  the  parties  a  second  should  take  place.  Valentin's 
first  bullet  had  done  exactly  what  Newman's  com- 
panion was  convinced  he  had  intended  it  to  do;  it 
had  grazed  the  arm  of  M.  Stanislas  Kapp,  just 
scratching  the  flesh.  M.  Kapp's  own  projectile, 
meanwhile,  had  passed  at  ten  good  inches  from  the 
person  of  Valentin.  The  representatives  of  M. 
Stanislas  had  demanded  another  shot,  which  was 
then,  on  Valentin's  absolute  insistence,  granted. 
But  Valentin  had  fired  into  space,  and  the  young 
Alsatian  had  done  effective  execution.  "I  saw,  when 
we  met  him  on  the  ground,"  said  Newman's  inform- 
ant, "that  he  was  not  going  to  be  commode.  A  mix- 
ture of  the  donkey  and  the  buffalo  —  with  no  sense 
whatever  of  proportion."  Valentin  had  immediately 
been  installed  at  the  inn,  while  M.  Stanislas  and  his 
friends  had  withdrawn  to  regions  unknown.  The 
police  authorities  of  the  canton  had  waited  upon  the 
others,  had  placed  them  under  technical  arrest  and 
had  drawn  up  a  long  proces-verbal;  but  as  the  wine 
had  been  drawn  —  alas!  —  the  powers  would  have 
to  drink  it.  Newman  asked  if  a  message  had  not 
been  sent  to  the  family,  and  learned  that  up  to  a  late 
hour  of  the  previous  night  Valentin  had  opposed  it- 
He  had  refused  to  believe  his  wound  dangerous. 

382 


THE  AMERICAN 

After  his  interview  with  the  cure,  however,  he  had 
consented,  and  a  telegram  had  been  despatched  to 
his  mother.  "But  the  Marquise  will  scarcely  have 
time — !"  So  judged  Newman's  conductor. 

"Well,  it's  a  wicked,  wanton,  infernal  affair!" 
So  judged  Newman  himself. 

"Ah,  you  don't  approve?"  his  friend  gravely 
questioned,  while  he  himself  remained  passionately 
careless  of  the  involved  reflexion  on  this  gentleman's 
control  of  the  encounter. 

"Approve?"  cried  Newman.  "I  wish  that  when 
I  had  him  there  night  before  last  I  had  locked  him 
up  in  my  cabinet  de  toilette  I " 

Valentin's  supporter  opened  his  eyes  and  shook 
his  head  up  and  down  two  or  three  times,  porten- 
tously, with  a  little  flute-like  whistle.  But  he  had 
evidently  been  prepared,  in  respect  to  this  outer  bar- 
barian, for  some  oddity  of  emotion  and  expression. 
They  had  in  any  case  reached  the  inn,  where  a  stout 
maid-servant  in  a  nightcap  was  on  the  threshold, 
with  a  lantern,  to  take  the  traveller's  bag  from  the 
porter  who  trudged  behind  him.  Valentin  was  lodged 
on  the  ground  floor  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and 
Newman's  companion  went  along  a  stone-faced  pass- 
age and  softly  opened  a  door.  Then  he  beckoned  to 
the  visitor,  who  advanced  and  looked  into  the  room, 
lighted  by  a  single  shaded  candle.  Beside  the  fire 
sat  M.  de  Grosjoyaux  asleep  in  his  dressing-gown  — 
a  short  stout  fair  man,  with  an  air  of  gay  surprise, 
whom  Newman  had  seen  several  times  in  Valentin's 
company.  On  the  bed  lay  Valentin,  pale  and  still, 
his  eyes  closed  —  a  figure  very  shocking  to  Newman, 

383 


THE  AMERICAN 

who  had  known  it  hitherto  awake  to  its  finger-tips. 
M.  de  Grosjoyaux's  colleague  pointed  to  an  open 
door  beyond  and  whispered  that  the  doctor  was  within, 
where  he  kept  guard.  So  long  as  Valentin  slept,  01 
seemed  to  sleep,  of  course  he  was  not  to  be 
approached;  so  our  hero  withdrew  for  the  present, 
committing  himself  to  the  care  of  the  half-waked 
bonne.  She  took  him  to  a  room  above-stairs  and  in- 
troduced him  to  a  bed  on  which  a  magnified  bolster, 
in  yellow  calico,  figured  as  a  counterpane.  He  lay 
down  and,  in  spite  of  his  counterpane  and  most  other 
things,  slept  for  three  or  four  hours.  When  he  awoke 
the  morning  was  advanced  and  the  sun  filling  his 
window,  outside  of  which  he  heard  the  clucking  of 
hens. 

While  he  was  dressing  there  came  to  his  door 
a  message  from  M.  de  Grosjoyaux  and  his  com- 
panion, who  amiably  proposed  he  should  breakfast 
with  them.  Presently  he  went  downstairs  to  the  little 
stone-paved  dining-room,  where  the  maid-servant, 
who  had  taken  off  her  nightcap,  was  serving  the 
repast.  M.  de  Grosjoyaux  was  there,  surprisingly 
fresh  for  a  gentleman  who  had  been  playing  sick- 
nurse  half  the  night;  he  now  rubbed  his  hands  very 
constantly  and  very  hard  and  watched  the  breakfast- 
table  attentively.  Newman  renewed  acquaintance 
with  him  and  learned  that  Valentin  was  still  in  a  doze; 
the  doctor,  who  had  had  a  fairly  tranquil  night,  was 
at  present  sitting  with  him.  Before  M.  de  Grosjoy- 
aux's associate  reappeared  Newman  learned  that 
his  name  was  M.  Ledoux  and  that  Bellegarde's 
acquaintance  with  him  dated  from  the  days  when 

384 


THE  AMERICAN 

they  served  together  in  the  Pontifical  Zouaves.  M, 
Ledoux  was  the  nephew  of  a  distinguished  Ultra- 
montane bishop.  At  last  he  came  in  with  an  effect 
of  dress  in  which  an  ingenious  attempt  at  adjustment 
at  once  to  a  confirmed  style  and  to  the  peculiar  situ- 
ation was  visible,  and  with  a  gravity  tempered  by 
a  decent  deference  to  the  best  breakfast  the  Croix 
Helvetique  had  ever  set  forth.  Valentin's  servant, 
who  was  allowed  but  with  restrictions  the  honour  of 
attending  his  master,  had  been  lending  a  light  Pa- 
risian hand  in  the  kitchen.  The  two  Frenchmen  did 
their  best  to  prove  that  if  circumstances  might  over- 
shadow they  could  n't  really  obscure  the  national 
gift  for  good  talk,  and  M.  Ledoux  delivered  a  neat 
little  eulogy  on  poor  Bellegarde,  whom  he  pro- 
nounced the  most  charming  Englishman  he  had  ever 
known. 

"Do  you  call  him  an  Englishman?"  Newman 
asked. 

M.  Ledoux  smiled  a  moment  and  then  just  fell 
short  of  an  epigram:  "C'est  plus  quun  Anglais,  h 
cher  homme  —  c  est  un  Anglomane  /"  Newman  re- 
turned, sturdily  and  handsomely,  that  any  country 
might  have  been  proud  to  claim  him,  and  M.  de 
Grosjoyaux  remarked  that  it  was  really  too  soon  to 
deliver  a  funeral  oration  on  poor  Bellegarde.  "Evi- 
dently," said  M.  Ledoux.  "But  I  couldn't  help 
observing  this  morning  to  Mr.  Newman  that  when 
a  man  has  taken  such  excellent  measures  for  his  sal- 
vation as  our  dear  friend  did  last  evening,  it  seems 
almost  a  pity  he  should  put  it  in  peril  again  by  corr> 
ing  back  to  the  world."  M.  Ledoux  was  a  great 

385 


THE  AMERICAN 

Catholic,  and  Newman  thought  him  a  queer  mixture. 
His  countenance,  by  daylight,  had  an  amiably  satur- 
nine cast;  he  had  a  large  lean  nose  and  looked  like  an 
old  Spanish  picture.  He  appeared  to  think  the  use  of 
pistols  at  thirty  paces  a  very  perfect  arrangement,  pro- 
vided, should  one  get  hit,  one  might  promptly  see  the 
priest.  He  took,  clearly,  a  great  satisfaction  in  Valen- 
tin's interview  with  that  functionary,  and  yet  his  gen- 
eral tone  was  far  from  indicating  a  sanctimonious 
habit  of  mind.  M.  Ledoux  had  evidently  a  high 
sense  of  propriety  and  was  furnished,  in  respect  to 
everything,  with  an  explanation  and  a  grave  grin  that 
combined  together  to  push  his  moustache  up  under 
his  nose.  Savoir-vivre  —  knowing  how  to  live  —  was 
his  strong  point,  in  which  he  included  knowing  how 
to  die;  but,  as  Newman  reflected  with  a  good  deal  of 
dumb  irritation,  he  seemed  disposed  to  delegate  to 
others  the  application  of  his  mastery  of  this  latter 
resource.  M.  de  Grosjoyaux  was  quite  of  another 
complexion  and  could  but  have  regarded  his  friend's 
theological  unction  as  the  sign  of  an  inaccessibly 
superior  spirit.  His  surprise  was  so  bright  that  it 
made  him  look  amused;  as  if,  under  the  impression 
of  M.  Kapp's  mere  mass,  he  could  n't  recover  from 
the  oddity  of  these  hazards,  that  of  the  translation  of 
so  much  large  looseness  into  a  thing  so  fine  as  a 
direction  —  even,  as  it  were,  a  dreadfully  wrong  one. 
He  could  have  understood  the  coup  if  it  had  been  his 
own  indeed,  and  he  kept  looking  through  the  window, 
over  the  shoulder  of  M.  Ledoux,  at  a  slender  tree  by 
the  end  of  a  lane  opposite  the  inn,  as  if  measuring  its 
distance  from  his  extended  arm  and  secretly  wishing 


THE  AMERICAN 

that,  since  the  association  of  ideas  was  so  close,  he 
might  indulge  in  a  little  speculative  practice. 

Newman  found  his  company  depressing,  almost 
irritating.  He  himself  could  neither  eat  nor  talk;  his 
soul  was  sore  with  grief  and  anger  and  the  weight  of 
his  double  sorrow  intolerable.  He  sat  with  his  eyes 
on  his  plate,  counting  the  minutes,  wishing  at  one- 
moment  that  Valentin  would  see  him  and  leave  him 
free  to  go  in  quest  of  Madame  de  Cintre  and  his  lost 
happiness,  and  mentally  calling  himself  a  vile  brute 
the  next,  for  the  egotism  of  his  impatience.  He  at 
least  was  poor  enough  company,  and  even  his  acute 
preoccupation  and  his  general  lack  of  the  habit,  de- 
termined by  all  his  need,  of  pondering  the  impression 
he  produced,  did  n't  prevent  his  guessing  the  others 
to  be  puzzled  at  poor  Bellegarde's  taking  such  a  fancy 
to  a  dull  barbarian  as  to  desire  him  at  his  deathbed. 
After  breakfast  he  strolled  forth  alone  into  the  village 
and  looked  at  the  fountain,  the  geese,  the  open  barn- 
doors, the  brown,  bent  old  women  who  showed  their 
hugely-darned  stocking-heels  at  the  end  of  their 
slowly-clicking  sabots,  as  well  as  at  the  beautiful  view 
of  snowy  Alp  and  purple  Jura  hanging  across  either 
end  of  the  rude  street.  The  day  was  brilliant;  early 
spring  was  in  the  air  and  the  sunshine,  and  the 
winter's  damp  trickled  out  of  the  cottage  eaves.  It 
was  birth  and  brightness  for  all  nature,  even  for 
chirping  chickens  and  other  feathered  waddling  par- 
ticles, and  it  was  to  be  death  and  burial  for  poor  fool- 
ish, generous,  precious  Valentin.  Newman  walked  as 
far  as  the  village  church  and  went  into  the  small 
graveyard  beside  it,  where  he  sat  down  and  looked  at 

387 


THE  AMERICAN 

the  awkward  tablets  planted  about.  They  were  all 
sordid  and  hideous,  and  he  could  feel  only  the  hard- 
ness and  coldness  of  death.  He  got  up  and  came 
back  to  the  inn,  where  he  found  M.  Ledoux  having 
coffee  and  a  cigarette  at  a  little  green  table  which  he 
had  caused  to  be  carried  into  the  small  garden. 
Newman,  learning  that  the  doctor  was  still  sitting 
with  Valentin,  asked  if  he  might  n't  be  allowed  to 
relieve  him;  he  had  a  great  desire  to  be  useful  to  their 
patient.  This  was,  through  M.  Ledoux,  easily  ar- 
ranged; the  doctor  was  very  glad  to  go  to  bed.  He 
was  a  youthful  and  rather  jaunty  practitioner,  but  he 
had  a  clever  face  and  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour  in  his  buttonhole;  Newman  listened  atten- 
tively to  his  instructions  and  took  mechanically  from 
his  hand  an  old  book  that  had  lain  on  the  window- 
seat  of  the  inn,  recommended  by  him  as  a  help  to 
wakefulness  and  which  proved  an  odd  volume  of 
"Les  Liaisons  Dangereuses." 

Valentin  still  lay  with  his  eyes  closed  and  without 
visible  change  of  condition.  Newman  sat  down  near 
him  and  for  a  long  time  narrowly  watched  him.  Then 
he  let  his  vision  stray  with  his  consciousness  of  his 
own  situation  —  range  away  and  rest  on  the  chain  of 
the  Alps  disclosed  by  the  drawing  of  the  scant  white 
cotton  curtain  of  the  window,  through  which  the  sun- 
shine passed  and  lay  in  squares  on  the  red-tiled  floor. 
He  tried  to  interweave  his  gloom  with  strains  of  hope, 
but  only  half  succeeded.  What  had  happened  to  him 
was  violent  and  insolent,  like  all  great  strokes  of  evil, 
unnatural  and  monstrous,  it  showed  the  hard  hand 
of  the  Fate  that  rejoices  in  the  groans  and  the  blood 

388 


THE  AMERICAN 

of  men,  in  the  tears  and  the  terrors  of  women,  and 
he  had  no  arms  against  it.  At  last  a  sound  struck  on 
the  stillness  and  he  heard  Valentin's  voice. 

"It  can't  be  about  me  you're  pulling  that  long 
face!"  He  found  when  he  turned  that  his  patient  lay 
in  the  same  position,  but  with  eyes  now  open  and 
showing  the  glimmer  of  a  smile.  It  was  with  a  very 
slender  strength  that  he  felt  the  pressure  of  his  hand 
answered.  "I  've  been  watching  you  for  a  quarter  of 
?n  hour,"  Valentin  went  on;  "you've  been  looking 
as  if  you  too  had  had  to  swallow  some  vile  drug. 
You  're  greatly  disgusted  with  me,  I  see.  Well,  of 
course!  So  am  l!" 

'Oh,  I  shan't  abuse  you,"  said  Newman.  "I  feel 
too  badly.  And  how  are  you  getting  on  ?" 

"Oh,  I  'm  getting  off  !  They  've  quite  settled  that. 
Are  n't  you  here  to  see  me  off?" 

"That 's  for  you  to  settle;  you  can  get  well  if  you 
try,"  Newman  declared  with  a  queer  strained  quaver. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  how  can  I  try  ?  Trying  's  violent 
exercise,  and  that  sort  of  thing  is  n't  in  order  for 
a  man  with  a  hole  in  his  side  as  big  as  your  hat, 
which  begins  to  bleed  if  he  moves  a  hair's  breadth. 
I  knew  you  'd  come,"  he  continued;  "I  knew  I  should 
wake  up  and  find  you  here;  so  I  'm  not  surprised^ 
But  last  night  I  Was  very  impatient.  I  did  n't  see 
how  I  could  keep  still  without  you.  It  was  a  matter 
of  keeping  still,  just  like  this;  as  still  as  a  mummy 
in  his  case.  You  talk  about  trying;  I  tried  that!  Well, 
here  I  am  yet  —  these  twenty  hours.  It 's  more  like 
twenty  days."  Valentin's  speech  was  slowly  taken, 
with  strange  precautions  and  punctuations,  but  it 

389 


THE  AMERICAN 

had,  however  faint,  the  flicker  of  his  gaiety,  and 
he  seemed  almost  to  say  what  he  wanted.  It  was 
visible,  however,  that  he  was  in  extreme  pain,  and 
at  last  he  again  closed  his  eyes.  Newman  begged 
him  to  make  no  effort  —  just,  as  he  called  it,  to  take 
his  ease;  the  doctor  had  left  urgent  orders  against 
worry.  "Oh,"  returned  Valentin,  "let  us  eat  and 
drink,  for  to-morrow  —  to-morrow — !"  And  he 
paused  again.  "No,  not  to-morrow,  perhaps,  but 
to-day.  I  can't  eat  and  drink,  but  I  can  talk.  What 's 
to  be  gained,  at  this  pass,  by  renun — renunciation  ? 
I  must  n't  use  such  big  words.  I  was  always  a  chat- 
terer; Lord,  how  I  've  bavarde  in  my  day!" 

"That's  a  reason  for  keeping  quiet  now,"  said 
Newman.  "We  know  how  beautifully  you  talk  —  it's 
all  right  about  that." 

But  Valentin,  without  heeding  him,  went  on  with 
the  same  effect  of  trouble  and  of  pluck.  "I  wanted 
to  see  you  because  you  've  seen  my  sister.  Does  she 
know  —  will  she  come?" 

Newman  felt  himself  the  poorest  of  deceivers. 
"Yes,  by  this  time  she  must  know." 

"Did  n't  you  tell  her  ?"  Valentin  asked.  And  then, 
in  a  moment:  "Didn't  you  bring  me  any  message 
from  her?"  His  eyes  now  covered  his  friend  like 
lifted  lamps. 

"  I  did  n't  see  her  after  I  got  your  telegram.  I  wrote 
to  her." 

"And  she  sent  you  no  answer  ?" 

Newman  managed  to  reply  that  Madame  de  Cintre 
had  left  Paris.  "She  went  yesterday  to  Fleurieres." 

"Yesterday  —  to  Fleurieres?   Why  did  she  go  to 

39° 


THE  AMERICAN 

Fleurieres  ?  What  day  is  this  ?  What  day  was  yester- 
day ?  Ah  then,  I  shan't  see  her,"  Valentin  moaned. 
"Fleurieres  is  too  far!"  And  he  became  dark  and 
dumb  again,  only  breathing  a  little  harder.  Newman 
sat  silent,  invoking  duplicity,  but  was  relieved  at 
being  able  soon  to  believe  him  really  too  weak  to  be 
curious.  He  did,  however,  at  last  break  out  again. 
"And  my  mother  —  and  my  brother  —  will  they 
come  ?  Are  they  at  Fleurieres  ?" 

"They  were  in  Paris,  but  I  did  n't  see  them  either," 
Newman  answered.  "If  they  received  your  telegram 
in  time  they  '11  have  started  this  morning.  Otherwise 
they  '11  be  obliged  to  wait  for  the  night  express  and 
change,  and  will  arrive  at  the  same  hour  I  did." 

"They  won't  thank  me  —  they  won't  thank  me," 
Valentin  murmured.  "They  '11  pass  an  atrocious 
night,  and  Urbain  does  n't  like  the  early  morning  air. 
I  don't  remember  ever  in  my  life  to  have  seen  him 
before  noon  —  before  breakfast.  No  one  ever  saw 
him.  We  don't  know  how  he  is  then.  Perhaps  he  's 
different.  Who  knows  ?  Posterity  perhaps  will  know. 
That 's  the  time  he  works  in  his  cabinet,  at  the  history 
of  the  Princesses.  But  I  had  to  send  for  them  — 
had  n't  I  ?  And  then  I  want  to  see  my  mother  sit 
there  where  you  sit  and  say  good-bye  to  her  —  hear 
her  above  all  say  hers  to  me.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
I  don't  know  i.er  —  she  may  have  some  surprise  for 
me.  Don't  think  you  know  her  yet,  yourself;  perhaps 
she  may  surprise  you.  But  if  I  can't  see  Claire  I  don't 
care  —  what  do  you  call  it  ?  —  a  red  cent.  Have  you 
then  green  sous  or  blue  ones  or  any  other  colour  > 
Ah  vous,  mon  cher,  vous  en  avez,  vous,  dt  toutes  Us 

391 


THE  AMERICAN 

couleurs !  But  what's  the  matter  —  while  I've  been 
dreaming  of  her  ?  Why  did  she  go  to  Fleurieres 
to-day  ?  She  never  told  me.  What  has  happened  ? 
Ah,  she  ought  to  have  guessed  I  'm  here  —  in  this 
bad  way.  It 's  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  ever  dis- 
appointed me.  Poor,  poor  Claire!" 

"You  know  we  're  not  man  and  wife  quite  yet  — 
your  sister  and  I,"  said  Newman.  "She  does  n't  yet 
account  to  me  for  all  her  actions."  He  tried  to  throw 
off  this  statement  with  grace,  but  felt  how  little  the 
muscles  of  his  face  served  him. 

Valentin  looked  at  him  harder.  "Have  you  two 
unimaginably  quarrelled  ?" 

"Never,  never,  never!"  Newman  exclaimed. 

"How  happily  you  say  that!"  said  Valentin. 
"You  're  going  to  be  happy  —  la-la!"  In  answer  to 
this  stroke  of  irony,  none  the  less  powerful  for  being 
so  unconscious,  all  poor  Newman  could  do  was  to 
give  a  helpless  and  ridiculous  grin,  for  the  conscious 
failure  of  which  he  then  more  ridiculously  blushed. 
Valentin,  still  playing  over  him  the  fitful  light  of 
fever,  presently  said :  "  But  something  is  the  matter 
with  you.  I  watched  you  just  now;  you  have  n't  a 
bridegroom's  face." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Newman  desperately  pleaded, 
"how  can  I  show  you  a  bridegroom's  face?  If  you 
think  I  enjoy  seeing  you  lie  here  and  not  being  able 
to  help  you  — !" 

"Why,  you  're  just  the  man  to  be  jolly  and  —  what 
do  you  call  it  ?  —  to  crow;  don't  forfeit  your  right  to 
it!  I  'm  a  proof  of  your  wisdom.  When  was  a  man 
ever  down  when  he  could  say 'I  told  you  so!'  You 

392  ' 


THE  AMERICAN 

told  me  so,  you  know.  You  did  what  you  could  about 
it.  You  said  some  very  good  things;  I  've  thought 
them  carefully  over.  But,  my  dear  friend,  I  was 
light,  all  the  same.  This  is  the  regular  way." 

"I  didn't  do  what  I  ought,"  said  Newman.  "I 
ought  to  have  done  something  better  " 

"For  instance  ?" 

"Oh,  something  or  other.  I  ought  to  have  treated 
you  as  a  vicious  small  boy  and  have  locked  you  up." 

"Well,  I  'm  a  very  small  boy  now,"  Valentin  softly 
sighed,  "and  God  knows  I  Ve  been  vicious  enough! 
I  'm  even  rather  less  than  an  infant.  An  infant 's 
helpless,  but  it 's  generally  voted  promising.  I  'm  not 
promising,  eh  ?  Society  can't  lose  a  less  valuable 
member."  Newman  was  strongly  moved.  He  got  up 
and  turned  his  back  on  his  friend  and  walked  away  to 
the  window,  where  he  stood  looking  out  but  only 
vaguely  seeing.  "No,  I  don't  like  the  look  of  your 
back,"  Valentin  continued.  "I  've  always  been  an 
observer  of  backs;  yours  is  quite  out  of  sorts." 

Newman  returned  to  his  bedside  and  begged  him 
to  be  quiet.  "Only  rest  and  get  well,  give  yourself 
the  very  best  chance.  That 's  what  you  want  and 
what  you  must  do.  Get  well  and  help  me." 

"I  told  you  you  were  in  trouble!  But  how  can 
I  'help'  you?"  Valentin  wailed. 

"I  '11  let  you  know  when  you  're  better.  You  were 
always  awfully  enquiring;  there  's  something  to  get 
well  /or/"  Newman  answered  with  resolute  anima- 
tion. 

Valentin  relapsed  once  more  and  lay  a  long  time 
without  speaking.  He  seemed  even  to  have  fallen 

393 


THE  AMERICAN 

asleep.  But  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  was  again 
conversing.  "  I  'm  rather  sorry  about  that  place  in 
the  bank.  Who  knows  but  I  might  have  become 
another  Rothschild  ?  But  I  was  n't  meant  for  a 
banker;  bankers  are  not  so  easy  to  kill.  Don't  you 
think  I  've  been  very  easy  to  kill  ?  It 's  not  like 
a  serious  man.  It 's  really  very  mortifying.  It 's  like 
telling  your  hostess  you  must  go,  when  you  count 
upon  her  begging  you  to  stay,  and  then  finding  she 
does  no  such  thing.  '  Really  —  so  soon  ?  You  've 
only  just  come!'  This  beastly  underbred  life  of  ours 
does  n't  make  me  any  such  polite  little  speech." 

Newman  for  some  time  said  nothing,  but  at  last  he 
broke  out.  "It's  a  bad  case  —  it's  a  bad  case  — 
it 's  the  worst  case  I  ever  met.  I  don't  want  to  say 
anything  unpleasant,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  've  seen 
men  dying  before  —  and  I  've  seen  men  shot.  I  Ve 
seen  men  in  the  worst  kind  of  holes  —  worse  even 
than  yours.  But  it  always  seemed  more  natural;  they 
were  of  no  account  compared  to  you  —  and  at  any 
rate  7  did  n't  care.  But  now  —  damnation,  damna- 
tion! You  might  have  done  something  more  to  the 
purpose.  It 's  about  the  meanest  wind-up  of  a  man's 
legitimate  business  I  can  imagine!" 

Valentin  feebly  waved  his  hand  to  and  fro.  "  Don't 
insist  —  don't  insist!  It 's  taking  a  mean  advantage. 
For  you  see  at  the  bottom  —  down  at  the  bottom 
in  a  little  place  as  small  as  the  end  of  a  wine-funnel 
—  I  agree  with  you ! "  A  few  moments  after  this  the 
doctor  put  his  head  through  the  half-opened  door 
and,  perceiving  his  charge  was  awake,  came  in  to 
tee!  his  pulse.  He  shook  his  head  and  declared  he 

394  * 


THE  AMERICAN 

had  talked  too  much  —  ten  times  too  much.  "Noi> 
sense!"  his  patient  protested;  "a  man  sentenced  to 
death  is  allowed  to  get  in  first  all  he  can.  He  can't 
talk  after,  and  if  he  was  ever  a  talker  — !  Have  you 
never  read  an  account  of  an  execution  in  a  news- 
paper?" he  went  on.  "Don't  they  always  set  a  lot 
of  people  at  the  prisoner  —  lawyers,  reporters,  priests 
—  to  make  him  talk  ?  But  it  Js  not  Newman's  fault; 
he  sits  there  as  mum  as  a  death's-head." 

The  doctor  observed  that  it  was  time  the  wound 
should  be  dressed  again;  MM.  de  Grosjoyaux  and 
Ledoux,  who  had  already  witnessed  this  delicate 
operation,  taking  Newman's  place  as  assistants. 
Newman  withdrew,  learning  from  his  fellow-watchers 
in  the  other  room  that  they  had  received  a  telegram 
from  the  Marquis  to  the  effect  that  their  message  had 
been  delivered  in  the  Rue  de  1'Universite  too  late  to 
allow  him  to  take  the  morning  train,  but  that  he 
would  start  with  his  mother  in  the  evening.  Our 
friend  wandered  away  into  the  village  again  and 
walked  about  restlessly  for  two  or  three  hours.  The 
day  had,  in  its  regulated  gloom,  the  length  of  some 
Interminable  classic  tragedy.  At  dusk  he  came  Lack 
and  dined  with  the  doctor  and  M.  Ledoux.  The 
dressing  of  Valentin's  wound  had  been  a  very  critical 
business;  the  question  was  definitely  whether  he 
could  bear  a  repetition  of  it.  He  then  declared  that 
he  must  beg  of  Mr.  Newman  to  deny  himself  for  the 
present  the  satisfaction  of  sitting  with  M.  de  Belle- 
garde;  more  than  any  one  else,  apparently,  he  had  the 
flattering  but  fatal  gift  of  interesting  him  more  than 
he  could  bear.  M.  Ledoux,  at  this,  swallowed  a  glass  of 

395 


THE  AMERICAN 

wine  in  silence;  he  must  have  been  wondering  what  the 
deuce  Bellegarde  found  so  exciting  in  the  American. 

Newman,  after  dinner,  went  up  to  his  room,  where, 
flinging  himself  too  on  his  bed  at  his  grim  length,  he 
lay  staring,  for  blank  weariness,  at  the  lighted  candle 
and  thinking  that  Valentin  was  dying  downstairs. 
Late,  when  the  candle  had  burnt  low,  came  a  soft  tap 
at  his  door.  The  doctor  stood  there  with  another 
light  and  a  motion  of  despair. 

"  He  must  faire  la  fete  tou jours!  He  insists  on  see- 
ing you,  and  I  'm  afraid  you  must  come.  I  think  that 
at  this  rate  he  '11  hardly  outlast  the  night." 

Newman  went  back  to  Valentin's  room,  which  he 
found  lighted  by  a  taper  on  the  hearth,  but  with  its 
occupant  begging  for  something  brighter.  "  I  want  to 
see  your  face.  They  say  you  work  me  up,"  he  went 
on  as  Newman  complied  with  this  request,  "and 
I  confess  I  Ve  felt  worked  up;  but  it  is  n't  you  —  it 's 
my  own  great  intelligence,  that  sacred  spark,  of  which 
you  Ve  such  an  opinion.  Sit  down  there  and  let  me 
look  at  you  again."  Newman  seated  himself,  folded 
his  arms  and  bent  a  heavy  gaze  on  his  friend.  He 
felt  as  if  he  were  now  playing  a  part,  mechanically, 
in  the  most  lugubrious  of  comedies.  Valentin  faced 
him  thus  for  some  time.  "Yes,  this  morning  I  was 
right;  you  Ve  something  on  your  mind  heavier  than 
ever  I  Ve  had.  Come,  I  'm  a  dying  man,  and  it 's 
indecent  to  deceive  me.  Something  happened  after 
I  left  Paris.  It  was  n't  for  nothing  that  my  sister 
started  off  at  this  season  of  the  year  for  Fleurieres. 
Why  was  it  ?  It  sticks  in  my  crop.  I  Ve  been  think- 
ing it  over,  and  if  you  don't  tell  me  I  shall  guess." 

396 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  had  better  not  tell  you,"  Newman  mildly  rea- 
soned. "It  won't  do  you  any  good." 

"  If  you  think  it  will  do  me  any  good  not  to  tell  me 
you  're  very  much  mistaken.  There  's  trouble  about 
your  marriage." 

"Yes.   There  's  trouble  about  my  marriage." 

"Good!"  With  which  Valentin  again  waited  a  little. 
"They've  stopped  it  off." 

"They've  stopped  it  off,"  Newman  admitted. 
Now  that  he  had  spoken  out  he  found  in  it  a  relief 
that  deepened  as  he  went  on.  "Your  mother  and 
brother  have  broken  faith.  They  Ve  decided  that  it 
can't  take  place.  They  Ve  decided  I  'm  not  good 
enough  —  when  they  come  to  think  of  it.  They  Ve 
taken  back  their  word.  Since  you  want  to  know, 
there  it  is!"  Valentin  uttered  a  strange  sound,  thrice 
lifting  his  hands  and  letting  them  drop.  "I'm  sorry 
not  to  have  anything  better  to  tell  you  of  them,"  New- 
man pursued.  "  But  it 's  not  my  fault.  I  was  indeed 
bewildered  enough  when  your  telegram  reached  me; 
I  was  quite  upside  down.  You  may  imagine  whether 
I  feel  any  better  now." 

Valentin  gasped  and  moaned  as  if  his  wound  were 
throbbing.  "Broken  faith,  broken  faith!  And  my 
sister  —  my  sister  ? " 

"Your  sister's  very  unhappy;  she  has  consented 
to  give  me  up.  I  don't  know  why  —  I  don't  know 
what  they  Ve  done  to  her;  it  must  be  something 
pretty  bad.  In  justice  to  her  you  ought  to  know. 
They  Ve  made  her  suffer  —  what  it  is  they  must  have 
put  her  through !  I  have  n't  seen  her  alone,  but  only 
before  them.  We  had  an  interview  yesterday  morn- 

397 


THE  AMERICAN 

ing.  They  let  me  have  it  full  in  the  face.  They  told 
me  to  go  about  my  business.  It  seems  to  me  a  very 
bad  case.  I'm  sorry  to  have  such  a  report  to  make  of 
them.  I'm  angry,  I'm  sore,  I'm  sick." 

Valentin  lay  there  staring,  his  eyes  more  brilliantly 
lighted,  his  lips  soundlessly  parted,  a  flush  of  colour 
in  his  pale  face.  Newman  had  never  before  uttered 
so  many  words  in  the  plaintive  key,  but  now,  in 
speaking  to  his  friend  in  that  friend's  extremity,  he 
had  a  sense  of  making  his  lament  somewhere  within 
the  presence  of  the  power  that  men  pray  to  in  trouble; 
he  felt  his  outgush  of  resentment  as  a  spiritual  act, 
an  appeal  to  higher  protection.  "And  Claire,"  the 
young  man  breathed;  "Claire?  She  has  given  you 
up?" 

"I  don't  really  believe  it." 

"No,  don't  believe  it,  don't  believe  it.  She's 
gaining  time.  Believe  that." 

"I  immensely  pity  her!"  said  Newman. 

"Poor,  poor  Claire!"  Valentin  sighed.  "But  they 
—  but  they  —  ?"  And  he  paused  again.  "You  saw 
them;  they  dismissed  you,  face  to  face?" 

"Face  to  face  —  rather!" 

"What  did  they  say?" 

"They  said  they  could  n't  stand  a  commercial 
person." 

Valentin  put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  New- 
man's arm.  "And  about  their  promise  —  their  en- 
gagement with  you?" 

"They  made  a  distinction.  They  said  it  was  to 
hold  good  only  until  Madame  de  Cintre  accepted 


me." 


398 


THE  AMERICAN 

"But  since  she  did—!" 

"Well,  since  she  did  —  after  she  did  —  they  found,, 
as  I  understand,  that  they  could  n't." 

Valentin  lay  staring  —  his  flush  died  away.  "  Don't 
tell  me  any  more.  I'm  ashamed." 

"You?  You're  the  soul  of  honour,"  said  New- 
man very  simply. 

Valentin  groaned  and  averted  his  head.  For  some 
time  nothing  more  was  said.  Then  he  turned  back 
again  and  found  a  certain  force  to  press  Newman's 
arm.  "It's  very  bad  —  very  bad.  When  my  people 
—  when  my  'race'  —  come  to  that,  it  is  time  for  me 
to  pass  away.  I  believe  in  my  sister;  she  '11  explain. 
Pardon  her,  allow  for  her,  be  patient  with  her;  wait 
for  that.  If  she  can't  —  if  she  can't  make  her  con- 
duct clear:  well,  forgive  her  somehow;  at  any  rate 
don't  curse  her.  She'll  pay  —  she  has  paid;  with 
her  one  chance  of  happiness.  But  for  the  others  it's 
very  bad  —  very  bad.  You  take  it  very  hard  ?  No, 
it's  a  shame  to  make  you  say  so."  He  closed  his  eyes 
and  again  there  was  a  silence.  Newman  felt  almost 
awed;  he  had  stirred  his  companion  to  depths  down 
into  which  he  now  shrank  from  looking.  Presently 
Valentin  fixed  him  again,  releasing  his  arm.  "I 
apologise.  Do  you  understand  ?  Here  on  my  death- 
bed. I  apologise  for  my  family.  For  my  mother. 
For  my  brother.  For  the  name  I  was  proud  of. 
Voila!"  he  added  softly. 

Newman  for  all  answer  took  his  hand  and  kept 
it  in  his  own.  He  remained  quiet,  and  at  the  end  of 
half  an  hour  the  doctor  noiselessly  returned.  Behind 
him,  through  the  half-open  door,  Nrwman  saw  the 

399 


THE  AMERICAN 

cwo  questioning  faces  of  MM.  de  Grosjoyaux  and 
Ledoux.  The  doctor  laid  a  hand  on  the  patient's 
wrist  and  sat  looking  at  him.  He  gave  no  sign,  and 
the  two  gentlemen  came  in,  M.  Ledoux  having  first 
beckoned  to  some  one  outside.  This  was  M.  le  cure> 
who  carried  in  his  hand  an  object  unknown  to  New- 
man and  covered  with  a  white  napkin.  M.  le  cure 
was  short,  round  and  red:  he  advanced,  pulling  off 
his  little  black  cap  to  Newman,  and  deposited  his 
burden  on  the  table;  and  then  he  sat  down  in  the 
best  armchair,  folding  his  hands  across  his  person. 
The  other  gentlemen  had  exchanged  glances  which 
expressed  unanimity  as  to  the  timeliness  of  their 
presence.  But  for  a  long  time  Valentin  neither  spoke 
nor  moved.  It  was  Newman's  belief  afterwards 
that  M.  le  cure  had  gone  to  sleep.  At  last,  abruptly, 
their  friend  pronounced  Newman's  name.  This 
visitor  went  to  him  and  he  said  in  French:  "You  're 
not  alone.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  alone."  Newman 
looked  at  the  doctor  and  the  doctor  looked  at  the 
cure,  who  looked  back  at  him;  and  then  the 
doctor  and  the  cure  together  gave  a  shrug.  "Alone 
—  for  five  minutes,"  Valentin  repeated.  "Please 
leave  us."  The  cure  took  up  his  burden  again 
and  led  the  way  out,  followed  by  his  companions. 
Newman  closed  the  door  behind  them  and  came 
back  to  Valentin,  who  had  watched  all  this  in- 
tently. 

"It's  very  bad,  it's  very  bad,"  he  said  after  New- 
man had  seated  himself  close.  "The  more  I  think 
of  it  the  worse  it  is." 

"Oh,  don't  think  of  it!"  Newman  groaned. 
4.00 


THE  AMERICAN 

But  his  friend  went  on  without  heeding  him. 
"  Even  if  they  should  come  round  again  the  shame  — 
the  baseness  —  is  there." 

"Oh,  they  won't  come  round!"  said  Newman 

"Well,  you  can  make  them." 

"Make  them?" 

"I  can  tell  you  something  —  a  great  secret  —  an 
immense  secret.  You  can  use  it  against  them  — 
frighten  them,  coerce  them." 

"A  secret!"  Newman  repeated.  The  idea  of  let- 
ting Valentin,  on  his  deathbed,  confide  to  him  any 
matter  sacredly  intimate,  shocked  him,  for  the  mo- 
ment, and  made  him  draw  back.  It  seemed  an 
illicit  way  of  arriving  at  information  and  even  had 
a  vague  analogy  with  listening  at  a  keyhole.  Then 
suddenly  the  thought  of  reducing  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  and  her  son  to  the  forms  of  submission  became 
attractive,  and,  as  to  lose  in  any  case  no  last  breath 
of  the  spirit  for  which  he  had  felt  such  a  kindness, 
he  brought  his  head  nearer.  For  some  time,  however, 
nothing  more  came.  Valentin  but  covered  him  with 
kindled,  expanded,  troubled  eyes,  and  he  began  to 
believe  he  had  spoken  in  delirium.  But  at  last  he 
spoke  again. 

"There  was  something  done  —  something  done 
at  Fleurieres.  It  was  some  wrong,  some  violence, 
I  believe  some  cruelty.  It  may  have  been  —  God 
forgive  me  now  —  some  crime.  My  father  —  some- 
thing happened  to  him:  I  don't  know  what;  I  've 
been  ashamed,  afraid,  to  know.  But  a  bad  business 
—  a  worse  even  than  yours  —  there  was  that.  My 
mother  knows  —  Urbain  knows." 

401 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Something  happened  to  your  father?"  Newman 
permitted  himself  to  ask. 

Valentin  looked  at  him  still  more  wide-eyed.  "He 
did  n't  get  well.  They  did  n't  let  him/' 

" '  Let '  him  ? "  —  Newman  stared  back.  "  Get  well 
of  what?" 

But  the  immense  effort  he  had  made,  first  to 
decide  to  utter  these  words  and  then  to  bring  them 
out,  appeared  to  have  taken  his  last  strength.  He 
lapsed  again  into  silence  and  Newman  sat  watching 
him.  "Do  you  understand?"  he  began  again  pre- 
sently. "At  Fleurieres.  You  can  find  out.  Mrs. 
Bread  knows.  Tell  her  I  made  this  point  —  at  this 
hour  —  of  your  asking  her.  She  '11  give  you  the 
truth  itself  —  and  then  you  '11  show  them  you  know 
it.  It  may  do  something  for  you.  It  may  make  the 
difference.  If  it  does  n't,  tell  every  one.  It  will  —  it 
will"  —  here  Valentin's  voice  sank  to  the  feeblest 
murmur  —  "it  will  pay  them." 

"Pay  them  ?"  — Newman  wondered. 

"What  you  owe  them!" 

The  words  died  away  in  a  long  vague  wail.  New- 
man stood  up,  deeply  impressed,  not  knowing  what 
to  say;  his  heart  was  beating  as  never.  "Thank  you," 
he  said  at  last.  "I'm  much  obliged."  But  Valentin 
seemed  not  to  hear  him;  he  remained  silent  and  his 
silence  continued.  At  last  Newman  went  and  opened 
the  door.  M.  le  cure  re-entered,  bearing  his  sacred 
vessel  and  followed  by  a  young  ministrant  at  his  altai 
in  a  white  stole,  by  the  three  gentlemen  and  by  Val- 
entin's servant.  It  was  quite  processional. 


XX 


VALENTIN  DE  BELLEGARDE  died  tranquilly,  just  as 
the  cold  faint  March  dawn  began  to  clear  the  grave 
faces  of  the  little  knot  of  friends  gathered  about  his 
bedside.  An  hour  later  Newman  left  the  inn  and 
drove  to  Geneva;  he  was  naturally  unwilling  to  be 
present  at  the  arrival  of  Madame  de  Bellegarde  and 
her  first-born.  At  Geneva,  for  the  moment,  he  re- 
mained. He  was  like  a  man  who  has  had  a  fall  and 
wants  to  sit  still  and  count  his  bruises.  He  instantly 
wrote  to  Madame  de  Cintre,  detailing  to  her  the 
circumstances  of  her  brother's  death  —  with  certain 
exceptions  —  and  asking  her  what  was  the  earliest 
moment  at  which  he  might  hope  she  would  consent 
to  see  him.  M.  Ledoux  had  told  him  he  had  reason 
to  know  that  Valentin's  will  —  he  had  had  a  great 
deal  of  light  but  pleasant  personal  property  to  dis- 
pose of — contained  a  request  that  he  should  be 
buried  near  his  father  in  the  churchyard  of  Fleur- 
ieres,  and  Newman  intended  that  the  state  of  his 
own  relations  with  the  family  should  not  deprive  him 
of  the  satisfaction  of  helping  to  pay  the  last  earthly 
honours  to  the  best  fellow  in  the  world.  He  reflected 
that  Valentin's  friendship  was  older  than  Urbain's 
enmity,  and  that  at  a  funeral  it  was  easy  to  escape 
notice.  Madame  de  Cintre's  answer  to  his  letter 
enabled  him  to  time  his  arrival  at  Fleurieres.  This 
answer  was  very  brief;  it  ran  as  follows' 

403 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  thank  you  for  your  letter  and  for  /our  being 
with  Valentin.  It  is  the  most  inexpressible  sorrow  to 
me  that  I  was  not.  To  see  you  will  be  only  anguish; 
there's  no  need  therefore  to  wait  for  what  you  call 
brighter  days.  It  is  all  one  now,  and  I  shall  have 
no  brighter  days.  Come  when  you  please;  only  notify 
me  first.  My  brother  is  to  be  buried  here  on  Friday, 
and  my  family  is  to  remain.  —  C.  DE  C." 

On  receipt  of  this  Newman  had  gone  straight  to 
Paris  and  to  Poitiers.  The  journey  had  taken  him  far 
southward,  through  green  Touraine  and  across  the 
far-shining  Loire,  into  a  country  where  the  early 
spring  deepened  divinely  about  him,  but  he  had 
never  made  one  during  which  he  had  heeded  less  the 
lay  of  the  land.  He  alighted  at  an  hotel  in  respect  to 
which  he  scarce  knew  whether  the  wealth  of  its  pro- 
vincial note  more  graced  or  compromised  it,  and  the 
next  morning  drove  in  a  couple  of  hours  to  the  village 
of  Fleurieres.  But  here,  for  all  his  melancholy,  he 
could  n't  resist  the  intensity  of  an  impression.  The 
petit  bourg  lay  at  the  base  of  a  huge  mound,  on  the 
summit  of  which  stood  the  crumbling  ruins  of  a  feudal 
castle,  much  of  whose  sturdy  material,  as  well  as  that 
of  the  wall  that  dropped  along  the  hill  to  enclose  the 
clustered  houses  defensively,  had  been  absorbed  into 
the  very  substance  of  the  village.  The  church  war 
simply  the  former  chapel  of  the  castle,  fronting  upoft 
its  grass-grown  court,  which,  however,  was  of  gener- 
ous enough  width  to  have  given  up  its  quaintest 
corner  to  a  small  place  of  interment.  Here  the  very 
headstones  themselves  seemed  to  sleep  as  they  slanted 
into  the  grass;  the  patient  elbow  of  the  rampart  held 

404 


THE  AMERICAN 

them  together  on  one  side,  and  in  front,  far  beneath 
their  mossy  lids,  the  green  plains  and  blue  distances 
stretched  away.  The  approach  to  the  church,  up  the 
hill,  defied  all  wheels.  It  was  lined  with  peasants  two 
or  three  rows  deep,  who  stood  watching  old  Madame 
de  Bellegarde  slowly  ascend  on  the  arm  of  her  elder 
son  and  behind  the  pall-bearers  of  the  other.  New- 
man chose  to  lurk  among  the  common  mourners  who 
murmured  "Madame  la  Comtesse"  as  a  particular 
tall  slimness  almost  bowed  beneath  its  ensigns  of  woe 
passed  before  them.  He  stood  in  the  dusky  little 
church  while  the  service  was  going  forward,  but  at 
the  dismal  tombside  he  turned  away  and  walked 
down  the  hill.  He  went  back  to  Poitiers  and  spent 
two  days  in  which  patience  and  revolt  were  con- 
founded in  a  single  ache.  On  the  third  day  he  sent 
Madame  de  Cintre  a  note  to  the  effect  that  he  would 
call  on  her  in  the  afternoon,  and  in  accordance  with 
this  he  again  took  his  way  to  Fleurieres.  He  left  his 
vehicle  at  the  tavern  in  the  village  street  and  obeyed 
the  simple  instructions  given  him  for  finding  the 
chateau. 

"It's  just  beyond  there,"  said  the  landlord,  and 
pointed  to  the  tree-tops  of  the  pare  above  the  oppo- 
site houses.  Newman  followed  the  first  cross-road  to 
the  right  —  it  was  bordered  with  mouldy  cottages  — 
and  in  a  few  moments  saw  before  him  the  peaked 
ro^fs  of  the  towers.  Advancing  further  he  found  him- 
self before  a  vast  iron  gate,  rusty  and  closed;  here  he 
paused  a  moment,  looking  through  the  bars.  The 
residence  was  near  the  road,  as  if  the  very  highway 
belonged  to  it;  this  gave  it  a  fine  old  masterly  air 

405 


THE  AMERICAN 

Newman  learned  afterwards,  from  a  guide-book  of 
the  province,  that  it  dated  from  the  reign  of  Henry 
til.  It  presented  to  the  wide-paved  area  which  pre- 
ceded it,  and  which  was  edged  with  shabby  farm- 
buildings,  an  immense  facade  of  dark  time-stained 
brick,  flanked  by  two  low  wings,  each  of  which  ter- 
minated in  a  little  Dutch-looking  pavilion  capped 
with  a  fantastic  roof.  Two  towers  rose  behind,  and 
behind  the  towers  was  a  grand  group  of  elms  and 
beeches,  now  just  faintly  green.  The  great  feature, 
however,  was  a  wide  green  river,  which  washed  the 
foundations  of  the  pile.  The  whole  mass  rose  from 
an  island  in  the  circling  stream,  so  that  this  formed 
a  perfect  moat,  spanned  by  a  two-arched  bridge  with- 
out a  parapet.  The  dull  brick  walls,  which  here  and 
there  made  a  grand  straight  sweep,  the  ugly  little 
cupolas  of  the  wings,  the  deep-set  windows,  the  long 
steep  pinnacles  of  mossy  slate,  all  mirrored  them- 
selves in  the  quiet  water. 

Newman  rang  at  the  gate,  and  was  almost  fright- 
ened at  the  tone  with  which  a  big  rusty  bell  above  his 
head  replied  to  him.  An  old  woman  came  out  from 
the  gatehouse  and  opened  the  creaking  portal  just 
wide  enough  for  him  to  pass,  on  which  he  went  in  and 
across  the  dry  bare  court  and  the  little  cracked  white 
siabs  of  the  causeway  on  the  moat.  At  the  door  of  the 
house  he  waited  for  some  moments,  and  this  gave  him 
a  chance  to  observe  that  Fleurieres  was  not  "kept 
up"  and  to  reflect  that  it  was  a  melancholy  place 
of  residence.  "It  looks,"  he  said  to  himself — and 
1  give  the  comparison  for  what  it  is  worth  —  "like 
a  Chinese  penitentiary."  At  last  the  door  was  opened 


THE  AMERICAN 

by  a  servant  whom  he  remembered  to  have  seen  in 
the  Rue  de  1'Universite.  The  man's  dull  face  bright- 
ened as  he  perceived  our  hero,  the  case  always  being 
that  Newman,  for  indefinable  reasons,  enjoyed  the 
confidence  of  the  livened  gentry.  The  footman  led 
the  way  across  a  great  main  vestibule,  with  a  pyramid 
of  plants  at  its  centre  and  glass  doors  all  around,  to 
what  appeared  to  be  the  principal  saloon.  The 
visitor  crossed  the  threshold  of  a  room  of  superb 
proportions,  which  made  him  feel  at  first  like  a  tour- 
ist with  a  guide-book  and  a  cicerone  awaiting  a  fee. 
But  when  his  guide  had  left  him  alone  after  observ- 
ing that  he  would  call  Madame  la  Comtesse,  he  saw 
the  place  contained  little  that  was  remarkable  beyond 
a  dusky  ceiling  with  curiously  carved  beams,  a  set  of 
curtains  of  elaborate  antiquated  tapestry  and  a  dark 
oaken  floor  polished  like  a  mirror.  He  waited  some 
minutes,  walking  up  and  down;  then  at  last,  as  he 
turned  at  the  end  of  the  room,  saw  Madame  de 
Cintre  had  come  in  by  a  distant  door.  She  wore 
a  black  dress  —  she  stood  looking  at  him.  As  the 
length  of  the  immense  room  lay  between  them  he  had 
time  to  take  her  well  in  before  they  met  in  the  middle 
of  it. 

He  was  dismayed  at  the  change  in  her  appearance. 
Pale,  heavy-browed,  almost  haggard,  with  a  monastic 
rigidity  in  her  dress,  she  had  little  but  her  pure  fea- 
tures in  common  with  the  woman  whose  radiant  good 
grace  he  had  hitherto  admired.  She  let  her  eyes  rest 
on  his  own  and  surrendered  to  him  her  hand;  but 
the  eyes  were  like  two  rainy  autumn  moons  and  the 
touch  portentously  lifeless.  "I  was  at  your  brother's 


THE  AMERICAN 

funeral,"  he  said.  "Then  I  waited  three  days.  But 
I  could  wait  no  longer." 

"Nothing  can  be  lost  or  gained  by  waiting,"  she 
answered.  "But  it  was  very  considerate  of  you  to 
wait,  horribly  wronged  as  you've  been." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  think  I  've  been  horribly  wronged," 
said  Newman  with  that  vague  effect  of  whimsicality 
with  which  he  often  uttered  words  of  the  gravest 
meaning. 

"Do  I  need  to  say  so  ?"  she  asked.  "I  don't  think 
I've  wronged,  seriously,  many  persons;  certainly  not 
consciously.  To  you,  to  whom  I  have  done  this  hard 
and  cruel  thing,  the  only  reparation  I  can  make  is  to 
say  that  I  know  it,  that  I  feel  it.  But  such  words  are 
pitifully  poor." 

"Oh,  they're  a  great  step  forward!"  said  Newman 
with  a  fixed  and  ah  —  as  he  even  himself  felt  — 
such  an  anxious  smile  of  encouragement.  He  pushed 
a  chair  toward  her  and  held  it,  looking  at  her  urgently. 
She  sat  down  mechanically  and  he  seated  himself 
near  her;  but  in  a  moment  he  got  up  and  stood  rest- 
lessly before  her.  She  remained  there  like  a  troubled 
creature  who  had  passed  through  the  stage  of  rest- 
lessness. 

"I  say  nothing's  to  be  gained  by  my  seeing  you," 
she  went  on,  " and  yet  I'm  very  glad  you  came.  Now 
I  can  tell  you  what  I  feel.  It's  a  selfish  pleasure,  but 
it's  one  of  the  last  I  shall  have."  And  she  paused 
with  her  great  misty  eyes  on  him.  "I  know  how  I've 
deceived  and  injured  you;  I  know  how  cruel  and 
cowardly  I  've  been.  I  see  it  as  vividly  as  you  do  — 
I  feel  it  to  the  ends  of  my  fingers."  And  she  un- 

408 


THE  AMERICAN 

clasped  her  hands,  which  were  locked  together  in  her 
lap,  lifted  them  and  dropped  them  at  her  side.  "Any- 
thing that  you  may  have  said  of  me  in  your  angriest 
passion  is  nothing  to  what  I  have  said  to  myself." 

"In  my  angriest  passion,"  said  Newman,  "I  Ve 
said  nothing  hard  of  you.  The  very  worst  thing  I  Ve 
said  of  you  yet  is  that  you  're  the  most  perfect  of 
women."  And  he  seated  himself  before  her  again 
abruptly. 

She  flushed  a  little,  but  even  her  flush  was  dim. 
"That 's  because  you  think  I  '11  come  back.  But 
I  shall  not  come  back.  It 's  in  that  hope  you  have 
come  here,  I  know;  I  'm  very  sorry  for  you.  I  'd  do 
almost  anything  for  you.  To  say  that,  after  what 
I  have  done,  seems  simply  impudent;  but  what  can 
I  say  that  will  not  seem  impudent  ?  To  wrong  you 
and  apologise  —  that 's  easy  enough.  I  should  not, 
heaven  forgive  me,  have  wronged  you."  She  stopped 
a  moment,  always  with  her  tragic  eyes  on  him,  but 
motioned  him  to  let  her  talk.  "I  ought  never  to  have 
listened  to  you  at  first;  that  was  the  wrong.  No  good 
could  come  of  it.  I  felt  it,  and  yet  I  listened;  that  was 
your  fault.  I  liked  you  too  much;  I  believed  in  you." 

"And  don't  you  believe  in  me  now  ?" 

"  More  than  ever.  But  now  it  does  n't  matter. 
I  Ve  given  you  up." 

Newman  gave  a  great  thump  with  his  clenched  fist 
upon  his  knee.  "Why,  why,  why  ?"  he  cried.  "Give 
me  a  reason  —  a  decent  reason.  You  're  not  a  child 
—  you  're  not  a  minor  nor  an  idiot.  You  're  not 
obliged  to  drop  me  because  your  mother  told  you  to. 
Such  a  reason  is  n't  worthy  of  you." 

409 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  know  that;  it 's  not  worthy  of  me.  But  it 's  the 
only  one  I  have  to  give.  After  all,"  said  Madame  de 
Cintre,  throwing  out  vain  hands,  "think  me  an  idiot 
and  forget  me!  That  will  be  the  simplest  way." 

He  got  up  and  walked  away  with  a  crushing  sense 
that  his  cause  was  lost  and  yet  with  an  equal  inability 
to  give  up  fighting.  He  went  to  one  of  the  great  win- 
dows and  looked  out  at  the  stiffly-embanked  river  and 
the  formal  gardens  beyond  it.  When  he  turned  round 
she  had  risen;  she  stood  there  silent  and  passive, 
so  passive  that  it  told  terribly  of  her  detachment. 
"You  're  not  frank,"  he  began  again;  "you  're  not 
really  honest  any  more  than  you  're  merciful.  In- 
stead of  saying  you  're  imbecile  you  should  say  that 
other  people  are  wicked.  Your  mother  and  your 
brother  have  been  false  and  cruel;  they  have  been  so 
to  me,  and  I  'm  sure  they  have  been  so  to  you.  Why 
do  you  try  to  shield  them  ?  Why  do  you  sacrifice  me 
to  them  ?  I  'm  not  false;  I  'm  not  cruel.  You  don't 
know  what  you  give  up;  I  can  tell  you  that  —  you 
dont.  They  bully  you  and  plot  about  you;  and  I  — • 
I  — "  And  he  paused,  lifting  the  strong  arms  to 
which  she  would  n't  come.  She  but  turned  away  and 
began  to  leave  him.  "You  told  me  the  other  day  that 
you  were  afraid  of  your  mother,"  he  followed  her  to 
say.  "It  must  have  meant  something.  What  there- 
fore did  it  mean  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  remember.  I  was  sorry 
afterwards." 

"You  were  sorry  when  she  came  down  on  you  and 
used  some  atrocious  advantage.  In  God's  name,  what 
is  it  she  does  to  you  ?" 

410 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Nothing.  Nothing  that  you  can  understand 
And  now  that  I  've  given  you  up  I  must  n't  complain 
of  her  to  you." 

"That's  no  reasoning!"  cried  Newman.  "Com 
plain  of  her,  on  the  contrary,  for  all  you  're  worth 
To  whom  on  God's  earth  but  to  me  ?  Tell  me  all 
about  it,  frankly  and  trustfully,  as  you  ought,  and 
we  '11  talk  it  over  so  satisfactorily  that  you  '11  keep 
your  plighted  faith." 

Madame  de  Cintre  looked  down  some  moments 
fixedly;  at  last  she  raised  her  eyes.  "One  good  at 
least  has  come  of  this:  I  've  made  you  judge  me  more 
fairly.  You  thought  of  me  in  a  way  that  did  me  great 
honour;  I  don't  know  why  you  had  taken  it  into 
your  head.  But  it  left  me  no  loophole  for  escape  — 
no  chance  to  be  the  common  weak  creature  I  am.  It 
was  not  my  fault;  I  warned  you  from  the  first.  But 
I  ought  to  have  warned  you  more.  I  ought  to  have 
convinced  you  that  I  was  doomed  to  disappoint  you. 
But  I  was,  in  a  way,  too  proud.  You  see  what  my 
superiority  amounts  to,  I  hope!"  she  went  on,  rais- 
ing her  voice  with  a  tremor  that  even  then  and  there 
he  found  all  so  inconsequently  sweet.  "I  'm  too 
proud  to  be  honest,  I  'm  not  too  proud  to  be  faithless. 
I'm  timid  and  cold  and  selfish.  I'm  afraid  of  being 
uncomfortable." 

"And  you  call  marrying  me  uncomfortable?"  he 
stared. 

She  flushed  as  with  the  sense  of  being  only  shut  up 
in  her  pain,  and  seemed  to  say  that  if  begging  his 
pardon  in  words  had  that  effect  of  an  easy  condition 
for  her  she  might  at  least  thus  mutely  express  her  per- 


THE  AMERICAN 

feet  comprehension  of  his  finding  her  conduct  odious. 
"It 's  not  marrying  you;  it 's  doing  all  that  would  go 
with  it.  It 's  the  rupture,  the  defiance,  the  insisting 
upon  being  happy  in  my  own  way.  What  right  have 
I  to  be  happy  when  —  when  —  ?"  Again  she  broke 
down. 

'When  what  ?"  he  pressed. 

"When  others  have  so  suffered." 

"What  others?"  he  demanded.  "What  have  you 
to  do  with  any  others  but  me  ?  Besides,  you  said  just 
now  that  you  wanted  happiness  and  that  you  should 
find  it  by  obeying  your  mother.  You  strangely  con- 
tradict yourself." 

"Yes,  I  strangely  contradict  myself;  that  shows 
you  —  strangely  enough  too  —  that  I  'm  not  even 
intelligent." 

"You're  laughing  at  me!"  he  cried.  "It's  as  if 
you  were  horribly  mocking!" 

She  looked  at  him  intently,  and  an  observer  might 
have  believed  her  to  be  asking  herself  if  she  should  n't 
most  quickly  end  their  common  pain  by  confessing  to 
some  such  monstrosity.  Yet  "No;  I  'm  not,"  was 
what  she  presently  said. 

"  Granting  that  you  're  not  intelligent/'  he  went 
on,  "that  you're  weak,  that  you're  common,  that 
you  're  nothing  I  've  believed  you  to  be  —  what  I  ask 
of  you  is  not  an  heroic  effort,  it 's  a  very  easy  and 
possible  effort.  There  's  a  great  deal  on  my  side  to 
make  it  so.  The  simple  truth  is  that  you  don't  care 
enough  for  me  to  make  it,' 

"I'm  cold,"  said  Madame  de  Cintre.  "I'm  as  cold 
as  that  flowing  river." 

4-12 


THE  AMERICAN 

Newman  gave  a  great  rap  on  the  floor  with  his 
stick  and  a  long  grirn  laugh.  "Ah,  not  you!  You  go 
altogether  too  far  —  you  overshoot  the  mark.  There 
is  n't  a  woman  in  the  world  as  bad  as  you  would  make 
yourself  out.  I  see  your  game;  it 's  what  I  said. 
You  're  blackening  yourself  to  whiten  others.  You 
don't  want  to  give  me  up  at  all;  you  like  me  —  you 
like  me,  God  help  you!  I  know  you  do;  you've 
shown  it,  and  I  've  felt  it  arid  adored  you  for  it! 
After  that  you  may  be  as  cold  as  you  please !  They  Ve 
bullied  you,  I  say;  they  've  tortured  you.  It's  an  out- 
rage, and  I  insist  on  saving  you  from  the  extrava- 
gance of  your  generosity.  Would  you  chop  off  your 
hand  if  your  mother  required  it?" 

She  gave  at  this  the  long  sigh  of  a  creature  too  hard 
pressed.  "  I  spoke  of  my  mother  too  blindly  the  other 
day.  I'm  my  own  mistress,  by  law  and  by  her 
approval.  She  can  do  nothing  to  me;  she  has  done 
nothing.  She  has  never  alluded  to  those  hard  words 
I  used  about  her." 

"She  has  made  you  feel  them,  I'll  promise  you!" 
said  Newman. 

"It's  my  conscience  that  makes  me  feel  them." 

"Your  conscience  then  seems  to  me  rather  extra- 
ordinarily mixed!"  he  passionately  returned. 

"It  has  been  in  great  trouble,  but  now  it's  very 
clear.  I  don't  give  you  up  for  any  worldly  advantage 
or  for  any  worldly  happiness." 

"Oh,  you  don't  give  me  up  for  Lord  Deepmere, 
I  know,"  he  agreed.  "I  won't  pretend,  even  to  pro- 
voke you,  that  I  think  that.  But  that's  what  youi 
mother  and  your  brother  wanted,  and  yonr  mother 


THE  AMERICAN 

at  that  villainous  ball  of  hers  —  I  liked  it  at  the  time, 
but  the  very  thought  of  it  now  is  a  bath  of  fire!  — 
tried  to  push  him  on  to  make  up  to  you." 

44  Who  told  you  this  ?"  she  asked  with  her  strange, 
stricken  mildness. 

"Not  Valentin.  I  observed  it.  I  guessed  it.  I 
did  n't  know  at  the  time  that  I  was  observing  it,  but 
it  stuck  in  my  memory.  And  afterwards,  you  recol- 
lect, I  saw  Lord  Deepmere  with  you  in  the  conserva- 
tory. You  said  then  that  you  would  tell  me  at 
another  time  what  he  had  said  to  you." 

"That  was  before  —  before  this,"  she  immediately 
pleaded. 

"It  does  n't  matter,"  said  Newman;  "and,  besides, 
I  think  I  know.  He's  an  honest  little  Englishman. 
He  came  and  told  you  what  your  mother  was  up 
to  —  that  she  wanted  him  to  supplant  me;  not  being 
a  commercial  person.  If  he  would  make  you  an 
offer  she  would  undertake  to  bring  you  over  and  give 
me  the  slip  —  getting  rid  of  me  easily,  or  at  least 
decently,  somehow.  Lord  Deepmere  is  n't  remark- 
ably bright,  so  she  had  to  spell  it  out  to  him.  He 
said  he  admired  you  'no  end/  and  that  he  wanted 
you  to  know  it;  but  he  did  n't  like  being  mixed  up 
with  that  sort  of  treachery,  and  he  came  to  you 
and  told  tales.  That  was  about  the  size  of  it, 
was  n't  it  ?  And  then  you  said  you  were  perfectly 
happy." 

"I  don't  see  why  we  should  talk  of  Lord  Deep- 
mere,"  she  returned.  "It  was  n't  for  that  you  came 
here;  and  about  my  mother  it  does  n't  matter  what 
you  suspect  and  what  you  know.  When  once  mv 


THE  AMERICAN 

mind  has  been  made  up,  as  it  is  now,  I  should  n't 
discuss  these  things.  Discussing  anything  now  is  very 
vain  and  only  a  fresh  torment.  We  must  try  and  live 
each  as  we  can.  I  believe  you'll  be  happy  again; 
even,  sometimes,  when  you  think  of  me.  When  you 
do  so,  think  this  —  that  it  was  not  easy  and  thct 
I  did  the  best  I  could.  I've  things  to  reckon  with 
that  you  don't  know.  I  mean  I've  feelings.  I  must 
do  as  they  force  me  —  I  must,  I  must.  They'd  haunt 
me  otherwise,"  she  cried,  with  vehemence;  "they'd 
give  me  no  rest  and  would  kill  me!" 

"I  know  what  your  feelings  are:  they're  pervers- 
ities and  superstitions!  They're  the  feeling  that  after 
all,  though  I  am  a  good  fellow,  I've  been  in  business; 
the  feeling  that  your  mother's  looks  are  law  and  your 
brother's  words  are  gospel;  that  you  all  hang  together 
and  that  it's  a  part  of  the  everlasting  great  order, 
your  order,  that  they  should  have  a  hand  in  every- 
thing you  do.  It  makes  my  blood  boil.  That  is  cold; 
you're  right.  And  what  I  feel  here,"  and  Newman 
struck  his  heart  and  became  more  eloquent  than  he 
knew,  "is  a  glowing  fire!" 

A  spectator  less  preoccupied  than  Madame  de 
Cintre's  distracted  wooer  would  have  felt  sure  from 
the  first  that  her  appealing  calm  of  manner  was  the 
result  of  violent  effort,  in  spite  of  which  the  tide  of 
agitation  was  rapidly  rising.  On  these  last  words  of 
Newman's  it  overflowed,  though  at  first  she  spoke 
low.  for  fear  her  voice  might  betray  her.  "No,  I  was 
not  right  —  I  'm  not  cold !  I  believe  that  if  I  'm  doing 
what  seems  so  bad  it's  not  mere  weakness  and  falsity. 
My  dear  friend,  my  best  of  friends,  it's  like  a  religion. 

415 


THE  AMERICAN 

I  can't  tell  you  —  I  can't!  It's  cruel  of  you  to  insist. 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  n't  ask  you  to  believe  me  — 
and  pity  me.  It's  like  a  religion.  There's  a  curse 
upon  the  house;  I  don't  know  what  —  I  don't  know 
why  —  don't  ask  me.  We  must  all  bear  it.  I  've  been 
too  selfish;  I  wanted  to  escape  from  it.  You  offered 
me  a  great  chance  —  besides  my  liking  you.  I  liked 
you  more  than  I  ever  liked  any  one,"  she  insisted  to 
him  with  a  beauty  and  purity  of  clearness,  and  yet 
with  the  sad  fallacy  of  thinking,  apparently,  that  she 
made  the  case  less  tragic  for  him  by  making  it  more 
tragic  for  herself.  "It  seemed  good  to  change  com- 
pletely, to  break,  to  go  away.  And  then  I  admired 
you,  I  admired  you,"  she  so  nobly  and  decently  re- 
peated. "But  I  can't  —  it  has  overtaken  and  come 
back  to  me."  Her  self-control  had  now  completely 
abandoned  her,  and  her  words  were  broken  with  long 
sobs.  "Why  do  such  dreadful  things  happen  to  us  — 
why  is  my  brother  Valentin  killed,  like  a  beast,  in  the 
beauty  of  his  youth  and  his  gaiety  and  his  brightness 
and  all  that  we  loved  him  for  ?  Why  are  there  things 
I  can't  ask  about  —  that  I'm  afraid,  for  my  life,  to 
know  ?  Why  are  there  places  I  can't  look  at,  sounds 
I  can't  hear  ?  Why  is  it  given  to  me  to  choose,  to 
decide,  in  a  case  so  hard  and  so  terrible  as  this  ?  I  'm 
not  meant  for  that  —  I'm  not  made  for  boldness  and 
defiance.  I  was  made  to  be  happy  in  a  quiet  natural 
way."  At  this  Newman  gave  a  most  expressive  groan, 
but  she  quavered  heartbreakingly  on:  " I  was  made  to 
do  gladly  and  gratefully  what's  expected  of  me.  My 
mother  has  always  been  very  good  to  me;  that's  all 
I  can  say.  I  must  n't  judge  her;  I  must  n't  criticise 


THE  AMERICAN 

her.  If  I  did  it  would  come  dreadfully  back  to  me. 
I  can't  change!" 

"No,"  said  Newman  bitterly;  "/  must  change  — 
if  I  break  in  two  in  the  effort!" 

"You're  different.  You're  a  man;  you'll  get  over 
it.  You'll  live,  you'll  do  things,  you  can't  not  do 
good,  therefore  you  can't  not  be  happy:  you'll  find  all 
kinds  of  consolation.  You  were  born  —  you  were 
trained  —  to  changes.  Besides,  besides,  I  shall  al- 
ways think  of  you." 

"I  don't  care  for  that!"  he  almost  shouted. 
"You're  cruel  —  you're  terribly  cruel,  God  forgive 
you!  You  may  have  the  best  reasons  and  the  finest 
feelings  in  the  world;  that  makes  no  difference. 
You're  a  mystery  to  me;  I  don't  see  how  such  hard- 
ness can  go  with  anything  so  divine!" 

Madame  de  Cintre  fixed  him  a  moment  with  her 
swimming  eyes.  "You  believe  I'm  hard  then?" 

He  glared  as  if  at  her  drowning  beyond  help;  then 
he  broke  out:  "You're  a  perfect,  faultless,  priceless 
creature!  For  God's  sake,  stay  by  me!" 

"Of  course  I'm  hard  in  effect,"  she  pitifully  rea- 
soned; "though  if  ever  a  creature  was  innocent,  in 
intention — !  Whenever  we  give  pain  we're  hard. 
And  we  must  give  pain;  that's  the  world  —  the  hate- 
ful miserable  world!  Ah!"  and  she  gave  a  sigh  as 
sharp  as  the  shudder  of  an  ague,  "I  can't  even  say 
I'm  glad  to  have  known  you  —  though  I  am.  That 
too  is  to  wrong  you.  I  can  say  nothing  that's  not 
cruel.  Therefore  let  us  part  without  more  of  this. 
Good-bye!"  And  she  put  out  her  hand. 

Newman  stood  and  looked  at  it  without  taking  it, 
417 


THE  AMERICAN 

and  then  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face.  He  felt  in  them 
the  rising  tears  of  rage.  "What  do  you  mean  to  do  ? 
Where  are  you  going?" 

"Where  I  shall  give  no  more  pain  and  suspect  no 
more  evil.  I  'm  going  out  of  the  world." 

"Out  of  the  world?" 

"I'm  going  into  a  convent." 

"  Into  a  convent ! "  He  repeated  the  words  with  the 
deepest  dismay;  it  was  as  if  she  had  said  she  was  go- 
ing into  an  hospital  for  incurables.  "Into  a  convent 
—  you!" 

"  I  told  you  that  it  was  not  for  my  worldly  ad- 
vantage or  pleasure  I  was  leaving  you." 

But  still  he  hardly  understood.  "You're  going  to 
be  a  nun,"  he  went  on;  "in  a  cell  —  for  life  —  with 
a  gown  and  a  black  veil  ?" 

"A  nun  —  a  blest  Carmelite  nun,"  said  Madame 
de  Cintre.  "For  life,  with  God's  leave  and  mercy." 

The  image  rose  there,  at  her  words,  too  dark  and 
horrible  for  belief,  and  affected  him  as  if  she  had  told 
him  she  was  going  to  mutilate  her  beautiful  face  or 
drink  some  potion  that  would  make  her  mad.  He 
clasped  his  hands  and  began  to  tremble  visibly. 
"Madame  de  Cintre,  don't,  don't,  I  beseech  you! 
On  my  knees,  if  you  like,  I'll  beseech  you." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  with  a  tender,  pity- 
ing, almost  reassuring  gesture.  "You  don't  under- 
stand, you've  wrong  ideas.  It's  nothing  horrible. 
It's  only  peace  and  safety.  It's  to  be  out  of  the 
world,  where  such  troubles  as  this  come  to  the  inno- 
cent, to  the  best.  And  for  life  —  that's  the  blessing 
of  it!  They  can't  begin  again." 


THE  AMERICAN 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  and  sat  looking  at  her  with 
a  long  inarticulate  wail.  That  this  superb  woman,  in 
whom  he  had  seen  all  human  grace,  the  rarest  per- 
sonal resource,  should  turn  from  him  and  all  the 
brightness  he  offered  her  —  him  and  his  future  and 
his  fortune  and  his  fidelity  —  to  muffle  herself  in 
ascetic  rags  and  entomb  herself  in  a  cell,  was  a  con- 
founding combination  of  the  merciless  and  the  impos- 
sible. As  the  vision  spread  before  him  the  impossi- 
bility turned  to  the  monstrous;  it  was  a  reduction  to 
the  absurd  of  the  trial  to  which  he  was  subjected. 
"You  —  you  a  nun;  you  with  your  beauty  defaced 
and  your  nature  wasted  —  you  behind  locks  and 
bars!  Never,  never,  if  I  can  prevent  it!"  And  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  in  loud  derision. 

"You  can't  prevent  it,"  she  returned,  "and  it  ought 
— a  little — to  satisfy  you.  Do  you  suppose  I'll  go 
on  living  in  the  world,  still  beside  you,  and  yet  not 
with  you  ?  It's  all  arranged.  Good-bye,  good-bye." 

This  time  he  took  her  hand,  took  it  in  both  his 
own.  "  For  ever  ? "  he  said.  Her  lips  made  an  inaud- 
ible movement  and  his  own  sounded  a  deep  impreca- 
tion. She  closed  her  eyes  as  if  with  the  pain  of  hearing 
it;  then  he  drew  her  toward  him  and  clasped  her 
to  his  breast.  He  kissed  her  white  face  again  and 
again,  as  to  leave  less  of  it  for  his  loss;  for  an  instant 
she  resisted  and  for  a  minute  she  submitted;  then, 
with  a  force  that  threw  him  back  panting,  she  dis- 
engaged herself  and  hurried  away  over  the  long  shin- 
ing floor.  The  next  moment  the  door  closed  behind 
her,  and  after  another  he  had  made  his  way  out  as  he 
could.  *  ^  ! 


XXI 

THERE  is  a  pretty  public  walk  at  Poitiers,  taid  out 
upon  the  crest  of  the  high  hill  around  which  the  little 
city  clusters,  planted  with  thick  trees  and  looking 
down  on  the  fertile  fields  in  which  the  old  English 
princes  fought  for  their  right  and  held  it.  Newman 
paced  up  and  down  this  retreat  for  the  greater  part  of 
the  next  day,  letting  his  eyes  wander  over  the  historic 
prospect;  but  he  would  have  been  sadly  at  a  loss  to 
tell  you  afterwards  if  the  latter  was  made  up  of  coal- 
fields or  of  vineyards.  He  was  wholly  possessed  by 
his  pang,  of  which  reflection  by  no  means  diminished 
the  ache.  He  feared  the  creature  he  had  thus  learned 
to  adore  was  irretrievably  lost;  and  yet  in  what  case 
of  straight  violation  of  his  right  of  property  had  he 
ever  merely  sat  down  and  groaned  ?  In  what  case 
had  he  not  made  some  attempt  at  recovery  ?  Wholly 
unused  to  giving  up  in  difficulties,  he  found  it  im- 
possible to  turn  his  back  upon  Fleurieres  and  its 
inhabitants;  it  seemed  to  him  some  germ  of  hope  or 
reparation  must  lurk  there  somewhere  if  he  could  only 
stretch  his  arm  out  far  enough  to  pluck  it.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  his  hand  on  a  door-knob  and  were  closing  his 
clenched  fist  on  it:  he  had  thumped,  he  had  called,  he 
had  pressed  the  door  with  his  powerful  knee  and 
shaken  it  with  all  his  strength,  and  dead,  damning 
silence  had  answered  him.  And  yet  something  held 
him  fhere  —  something  hardened  the  grasp  of  his 

4.20 


THE  AMERICAN 

fingers.  His  satisfaction  had  been  too  intense,  his 
whole  plan  too  deliberate  and  mature,  his  prospect  of 
happiness  too  rich  and  comprehensive,  for  this  fine 
moral  fabric  to  crumble  at  a  stroke.  The  very 
foundation  seemed  fatally  injured  and  yet  he  felt 
?.  stubborn  desire  still  to  try  to  save  the  edifice.  He 
was  filled  with  a  sorer  sense  of  wrong  than  he  had 
ever  known,  or  than  he  had  supposed  it  possible  he 
should  know.  To  accept  his  injury  and  walk  away 
without  looking  behind  him  was  a  stretch  of  accom- 
modation of  which  he  found  himself  incapable.  He 
looked  behind  him  intently  and  continually,  and  what 
he  saw  there  did  n't  assuage  his  resentment.  He  saw 
himself  trustful,  generous,  liberal,  patient,  easy,  pock- 
eting frequent  irritation  and  furnishing  unlimited 
modesty.  To  have  eaten  humble  pie,  to  have  been 
snubbed  and  patronised  and  satirised,  and  have 
consented  to  take  it  as  one  of  the  conditions  of  the 
bargain  —  to  have  done  this,  and  done  it  all  for 
nothing,  surely  gave  one  a  right  to  protest. 

And  to  be  turned  off  because  one  was  a  commercial 
person!  As  if  he  had  ever  talked  or  dreamt  of  the 
commercial  since  his  connexion  with  the  Bellegardes 
began  —  as  if  he  had  made  the  least  circumstance  of 
the  commercial  —  as  if  he  would  n't  have  consented 
to  confound  the  commercial  fifty  times  a  day  if  it 
might  have  increased  by  a  hair's  breadth  the  chance 
of  his  not  suffering  this  so  much  more  than  commer- 
cial treachery!  Granted  one's  being  commercial  was 
fair  ground  for  one's  being  cleverly  "sold,"  how  little 
they  knew  about  the  class  so  designated  and  its  enter- 
prising way  of  not  standing  on  trifles!  It  was  in  the 

421 


THE  AMERICAN 

light  of  his  injury  that  the  weight  of  his  past  endur- 
ance seemed  so  heavy;  his  current  irritation  had  not 
been  so  great,  merged  as  it  was  in  his  vision  of  the 
cloudless  blue  that  overarched  his  more  intimate  rela- 
tion. But  now  his  sense  of  outrage  was  deep,  rancor- 
ous and  ever-present;  he  felt  himself  as  swindled  as 
he  had  been  confiding.  As  for  his  friend's  spiritual 
position,  it  moved  him  but  to  dismal  mystification;  it 
struck  him  with  a  kind  of  awe,  and  the  fact  that  he 
was  powerless  to  understand  it  or  feel  the  reality  of  its 
motives  only  made  it  a  deadlier  oppression.  He  had 
never  let  the  fact  of  her  religious  faith  trouble  him; 
Catholicism  was  only  a  name  to  him,  and  to  express 
a  mistrust  of  her  forms  of  worship  would  have  implied 
that  he  had  other  and  finer  ones  to  offer:  which  was 
as. little  possible  as  might  be.  If  such  flawless  white 
flowers  as  that  could  bloom  in  Catholic  soil  they  but 
attested  its  richness.  But  it  was  one  thing  to  be 
a  Catholic  and  another  to  turn  nun  —  on  your  hands! 
There  was  something  lugubriously  comical  in  the  way 
Newman's  thoroughly  contemporaneous  optimism 
was  confronted  with  this  dusky  old-world  expedient. 
To  see  a  woman  made  for  him  and  for  motherhood  to 
his  children  juggled  away  in  this  tragic  travesty  —  it 
was  a  thing  to  rub  one's  eyes  over,  a  nightmare,  an 
extravagance,  a  hoax.  But  the  hours  passed  without 
disproving  anything,  passed  leaving  him  only  the 
aftertaste  of  the  vehemence  with  which  he  had  held 
her  to  his  heart.  He  remembered  her  words  and  her 
looks  —  he  lived  through  again  the  sense  of  her  short 
submission;  he  turned  them  over  and  tried  to  make 
them  square  with  the  saving  of  something  from  nil 

422 


THE  AMERICAN 

wreck.  How  had  she  meant  that  the  force  driving 
her  was,  as  a  thing  apart  from  the  conventual  ques 
tion,  a  "religion"  ?  It  was  the  religion  simply  of  the 
family  laws,  the  religion  of  which  her  implacable 
mother  was  priestess.  Twist  the  thing  about  as  her 
generosity  would,  the  one  certain  fact  was  that  they 
had  been  able  to  determine  her  act.  Her  generosity 
had  tried  to  screen  them,  but  Newman's  heart  rose 
into  his  throat  at  the  thought  that  they  should  go 
scot-free. 

The  twenty-four  hours  spent  themselves,  and  the 
next  morning  he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  the  resolution 
to  return  to  Fleurieres  and  demand  another  interview 
with  Madame  de  Bellegarde  and  her  son.  He  lost  no 
time  in  putting  it  into  practice.  As  he  rolled  swiftly 
over  the  excellent  road  in  the  little  caleche  furnished 
him  at  the  inn  at  Poitiers,  he  drew  forth,  as  it  were, 
from  the  very  safe  place  in  his  mind  to  which  he  had 
consigned  it,  the  last  information  given  him  by  poor 
Valentin.  Valentin  had  told  him  he  could  do  some- 
thing with  it,  and  Newman  thought  it  would  be  well 
to  have  it  at  hand.  This  was  of  course  not  the  first 
time,  lately,  that  he  had  given  it  his  attention.  It  was 
information  in  the  rough  —  it  was  formless  and  ob- 
scure; but  he  was  neither  helpless  nor  afraid.  Valen- 
tin had  clearly  meant  to  put  him  in  possession  of 
a  weapon  he  could  use,  though  he  could  n't  be  said 
to  have  placed  the  handle  very  securely  in  his  grasp. 
But  if  he  had  told  him  nothing  definite  he  had  at 
least  given  him  a  clue  —  a  clue  of  which  the  de- 
cidedly remarkable  Mrs.  Bread  held  the  other  end. 
Mrs.  Bread  had  always  looked  to  Newman  as  if  she 

423 


THE  AMERICAN 

held  clues;  and  as  he  apparently  enjoyed  her  esteem 
he  suspected  she  might  be  induced  to  share  with  him 
her  knowledge.  So  long  as  there  was  only  Mrs. 
Bread  to  deal  with  he  felt  easy.  As  to  what  there  was 
to  find  out,  he  had  only  one  fear  —  that  it  might  not 
be  bad  enough.  Then,  when  the  image  of  the  Mar- 
quise and  her  son  rose  before  him  again,  standing 
side  by  side,  the  old  woman's  hand  in  Urbain's  arm 
and  the  same  cold  guarded  glare  in  the  eyes  of  each, 
he  cried  out  to  himself  that  the  fear  was  groundless. 
There  was  crime  in  the  air  at  the  very  least!  He 
arrived  at  Fleurieres  almost  in  a  state  of  elation;  he 
had  satisfied  himself,  logically,  that  in  the  presence 
of  his  threat  of  penetration  they  would,  as  he  men- 
tally phrased  it,  rattle  down  like  loosened  buckets. 
He  remembered  indeed  that  he  must  first  catch  his 
hare  —  first  ascertain  what  there  was  to  penetrate; 
but  after  that  why  should  n't  his  happiness  be  as 
good  as  new  ?  Mother  and  son,  dropping  in  terror 
the  tender  victim  they  had  mauled,  would  take  to 
hiding,  and  Madame  de  Cintre,  left  to  herself,  would 
surely  come  back  to  him.  Give  her  a  chance  and  she 
would  rise  to  the  surface  and  return  to  the  light. 
How  could  she  fail  to  perceive  that  his  house  would 
have  all  the  security  of  a  convent  and  none  of  the 
dampness  ? 

Newman,  as  he  had  done  before,  left  his  convey- 
ance at  the  inn  and  walked  the  short  remaining  dis- 
tance to  the  chateau.  When  he  reached  the  gate, 
however,  a  singular  feeling  took  possession  of  him  — 
a  feeling  which,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  had  its 
source  in  his  unfathomable  good-nature.  He  stood 

424 


THE  AMERICAN 

there  a  while,  looking  through  the  bars  at  the  large 
time-stained  face  beyond  and  wondering  to  what 
special  misdeed  it  was  that  the  dark  old  dwelling 
with  the  flowery  name  had  given  convenient  occa- 
sion. It  had  given  occasion,  first  and  last,  to  tyran- 
nies and  Bufferings  enough,  Newman  said  to  himself; 
it  was  an  evil-looking  place  to  live  in.  Then  sud- 
denly came  the  reflexion:  what  a  horrible  rubbish- 
heap  of  iniquity  to  fumble  through!  The  attitude  of 
inquisitor  turned  its  ignoble  face,  and  with  the 
same  movement  he  declared  that  the  Bellegardts 
should  have  another  chance.  He  would  appeal  once 
more  directly  to  their  sense  of  fairness  and  not 
to  their  fear;  and  if  they  should  be  accessible 
to  reason  he  need  know  nothing  worse  about 
them  than  what  he  already  knew.  That  was  bad 
enough. 

The  gate-keeper  let  him  in  through  the  same 
"mean"  crevice  of  aperture  —  for  so  he  qualified  it 
—  as  before,  and  he  passed  through  the  court  and 
over  the  rustic  bridge  of  the  moat.  The  door  was 
opened  before  he  had  reached  it,  and,  as  if  to  put  his 
clemency  to  rout  with  the  suggestion  of  a  richer 
opportunity,  Mrs.  Bread  stood  there  awaiting  him. 
Her  face,  as  usual,  looked  hopelessly  blank,  like  the 
tide-smoothed  sea-sand,  and  her  black  garments  hung 
as  heavy  as  if  soaked  in  salt  tears.  Newman  had 
already  learned  how  interesting  she  could  make  the 
expression  of  nothing  at  all,  and  he  scarce  knew 
whether  she  now  struck  him  as  almost  dumb  or  as 
almost  effusive.  "I  thought  you  would  try  again, 
sir.  I  w*s  looking  out  for  you." 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  answered;  "I  think 
you're  my  friend." 

Mrs.  Bread  looked  at  him  opaquely.  "I  wish  you 
well,  sir;  but  it's  vain  wishing  now." 

"You  know  then  how  they've  treated  me  ?" 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  dryly  returned,  "I  know  every- 
thing." 

He  frankly  enough  wondered.    "Everything  ?" 

Her  eyes  just  visibly  lighted.  "I  know  at  least  too 
much." 

"One  can  never  know  too  much.  I  congratulate 
you  on  every  scrap  of  it.  I  've  come  to  see  Madame 
de  Bellegarde  and  her  son,"  Newman  added.  "Are 
they  at  home  ?  If  they're  not  I'll  wait." 

"My  lady's  always  at  home,"  Mrs.  Bread  replied, 
"and  the  Marquis  is  mostly  with  her." 

"  Please  then  tell  them  —  one  or  the  other,  or 
both  —  that  I  'm  here  and  that  I  should  like  to  see 
them." 

Mrs.  Bread  hesitated.  "May  I  take  a  great  liberty, 
sir?" 

"You've  never  taken  a  liberty  but  you've  justified 
it,"  said  Newman  with  diplomatic  urbanity. 

She  dropped  her  wrinkled  eyelids  as  if  she  were 
curtseying;  but  the  curtsey  stopped  there:  the  occa- 
sion was  too  grave.  "You've  come  to  plead  with 
them  again,  sir  ?  Perhaps  you  don't  know  this  — 
that  the  poor  Countess  returned  this  morning  to 
Paris." 

"Ah,  she's  gone!"  And  Newman,  groaning,  smote 
the  pavement  with  his  stick 

"  She 's  gone  straight  to  the  convent  —  the  Carmel- 

426 


THE  AMERICAN 

ites,  you  know,  is  the  miserable  name.  I  see  you  do 
know,  sir.  My  lady  and  the  Marquis  take  it  very  ill. 
It  was  only  last  night  she  told  them." 

"Ah,  she  had  kept  it  back  then  ?"  he  cried.  "Well, 
that's  all  right.  And  they're  highly  worked  up  ?" 

"They're  certainly  not  pleased.  But  they  may  well 
dislike  it.  They  tell  me  it's  most  dreadful,  sir;  of  all 
the  nuns  in  Christendom  the  Carmelites  are  the  worst. 
They're  so  unnatural  that  you  may  say  they're  really 
not  human;  they  make  you  give  up  everything  in 
the  world  you  have  —  for  ever  and  for  ever.  And  to 
think  of  her  in  that  destitution!  If  I  was  one  who  sat 
down  and  cried,  sir,  I  could  give  way  at  this  moment." 

Newman  looked  at  her  an  instant.  "We  must  n't 
cry,  Mrs.  Bread,  and  still  less  must  we  sit  down. 
We  must  stand  right  up  and  act.  Please  let  them 
know/'  And  he  took  a  forward  step. 

But  she  gently  checked  him.  "May  I  take  another 
liberty?  I'm  told  you  were  with  poor  Count  Valen- 
tin, heaven  forgive  him,  in  his  last  hours,  and  I  should 
biess  you,  sir,  if  you  could  tell  me  a  word  about  him. 
He  was  my  own  dear  boy,  sir;  for  the  first  year  of  his 
life  he  was  hardly  out  of  my  arms;  I  taught  him  the 
first  words  he  spoke  —  and  he  spoke  so  beautifully, 
did  n't  lie,  sir  r  He  always  spoke  well  to  his  poor  old 
Bread.  When  he  grew  up  and  took  his  pleasure  he 
always  had  a  kind  word  for  me.  And  to  die  in  that 
wild  wrong  way!  They've  a  story  that  he  fought  with 
a  wine-merchant.  I  can't  believe  that  of  him,  sir! 
And  was  he  in  great  pain?" 

"You're  a  wise,  kind  old  woman,  Mrs.  Bread," 
said  Newman.  "I  hoped  I  might  see  you  with  my 

427 


THE  AMERICAN 

own  children  in  your  arms.  Perhaps  I  shall  yet" 
And  he  put  out  his  hand.  She  looked  for  a  moment 
at  his  open  palm,  and  then,  as  if  fascinated  by  the 
novelty  of  the  gesture,  extended  her  own  ladylike 
member.  Newman  held  it  firmly  and  deliberately, 
fixing  his  eyes  on  her.  "  You  want  to  know  all  about 
the  Count?" 

"It  would  be  a  terrible  pleasure,  sir." 

"I  can  tell  you  everything.  Can  you  sometimes 
leave  this  place  ?" 

"The  chateau,  sir?  I  really  don't  know.  I've 
never  tried." 

"Try  then;  try  hard.  Try  this  evening  at  dusk. 
Come  to  me  in  the  old  ruin  there  on  the  hill,  in  the 
court  before  the  church.  I'll  wait  for  you  on  that 
spot;  I've  something  very  important  to  tell  you. 
A  grand  old  woman  like  you  can  do  as  she  pleases." 

She  wondered  with  parted  lips.  "Is  it  from  the 
dear  Count,  sir  ?" 

"  From  the  dear  Count  —  from  his  damnable 
deathbed." 

"I'll  come,  then.  I'll  be  bold,  for  once,  for 
him." 

She  led  Newman  into  the  great  drawing-room  with 
which  he  had  already  made  acquaintance,  and  retired 
to  carry  his  message.  He  waited  a  long  time;  at  last 
he  was  on  the  point  of  ringing  and  repeating  his  re- 
quest. He  was  looking  round  him  for  a  bell  when  the 
Marquis  came  in  with  his  mother  on  his  arm.  It  will 
be  seen  he  had  a  logical  mind  when  I  say  that  he 
declared  to  himself,  in  perfect  good  faith,  as  a  result 
of  Valentin's  supreme  communication,  that  his  ad- 

428 


THE  AMERICAN 

versaries  looked  grossly  wicked  and  capable  of  the 
blackest  evi!.  "There's  no  mistake  about  it  now," 
he  reflected  as  they  advanced.  "They're  a  bad,  bad 
lot;  they've  pulled  off  the  varnished  mask."  Madame 
de  Bellegarde  and  her  son  certainly  bore  in  their  faces 
the  signs  of  extreme  perturbation;  they  were  plainly 
people  who  had  passed  a  sleepless  night.  Confronted, 
moreover,  with  an  annoyance  which  they  hoped  they 
had  disposed  of,  it  was  not  natural  they  should  meet 
their  visitor  with  conciliatory  looks.  He  stood  before 
them,  and  of  the  coldest  glare  they  could  command 
he  had  the  full  benefit.  He  felt  as  if  the  door  of 
a  sepulchre  had  suddenly  been  opened  and  the  damp 
darkness  were  exhaled. 

"You  see  I've  come  back,"  he  said,  however,  with 
a  tentative  freshness.  "I've  come  to  try  again." 

"It  would  be  ridiculous,"  the  Marquis  returned, 
"to  pretend  that  we're  glad  to  see  you  or  that  we 
don't  question  the  taste  of  your  visit."  :.  .v 

"Oh,  don't  talk  about  taste!"  —  and  Newman  per- 
mitted himself  perhaps  the  harshest  laugh  into  which 
he  had  ever  broken;  "that  would  bring  us  round  to 
yours  i  If  I  consulted  my  taste  I  certainly  would  n't 
come  to  see  you.  Besides,  I'll  make  as  short  work 
as  you  please.  Give  me  a  guarantee  that  you '11  raise 
the  blockade  —  that  you'll  set  Madame  de  Cintre  at 
liberty  —  and  I  '11  retire  on  the  spot." 

"We  hesitated  as  to  whether  we  would  see  you," 
said  Madame  de  Bellegarde;  "and  we  were  on  the 
point  of  declining  the  honour.  But  it  seemed  to  me 
we  should  act  with  civility,  as  we've  always  done, 
and  I  wished  to  have  the  satisfaction  of  informing  you 

429 


THE  AMERICAN 

that  there  are  certain  weaknesses  people  of  oui  way  of 
feeling  can  be  guilty  of  but  once." 

"You  may  be  weak  but  once,  but  you'll  be  auda- 
cious many  times,  madam,"  Newman  rang  out.  "1 
did  n't  come,  however,  for  conversational  purposes. 
I  came  to  say  this  simply:  that  if  you'll  write  imme- 
diately to  your  daughter  that  you  withdraw  your 
opposition  to  our  marriage  I'll  take  care  of  the  rest. 
You  don't  want  to  make  of  her  a  cloistered  nun  — 
you  know  more  about  the  horrors  of  it  than  I  do. 
Marrying  a  commercial  person  is  better  than  being 
buried  alive.  Give  me  a  letter  to  her,  signed  and 
sealed,  saying  you  give  way  and  that  she  may  take 
me  with  your  blessing,  and  I'll  take  it  to  her  at  her 
place  of  retreat  and  bring  that  retreat  to  an  instant 
end.  There's  your  chance  —  and  I  call  them  easy 


terms." 


"We  look  at  the  matter  otherwise,  you  know.  We 
call  any  terms  that  you  can  propose  impossible," 
Urbain  declared.  They  had  all  remained  standing 
stiffly  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  "  I  think  my  mother 
will  tell  you  that  she'd  rather  her  daughter  should 
become  Soeur  Catherine  than  Mrs.  Christopher  New- 


man." 


But  the  old  lady,  with  the  serenity  of  supreme 
power,  let  her  son  make  her  epigrams  for  her.  She 
only  smiled,  almost  sweetly,  shaking  her  head  and 
repeating:  "But  once,  Mr.  Newman;  but  once!" 

Nothing  he  had  ever  seen  or  heard  gave  him  such 
a  sense  of  polished  marble  hardness  as  this  move- 
ment and  the  tone  that  accompanied  it.  "Is  there 
anything  that  would  weigh  with  you?"  he  asked, 

43° 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Is  there  anything  that  would,  as  we  say,  squeeze 
you  ?"  he  continued. 

"This  language,  sir,"  said  the  Marquis,  "ad- 
dressed to  people  in  bereavement  and  grief,  is  beyond 
all  qualification." 

"In  most  cases,"  Newman  answered,  "your  objec- 
tion would  have  some  force,  even  admitting  that 
Madame  de  Cintre's  present  intentions  make  time 
precious.  But  I've  thought  of  what  you  speak  of, 
and  I've  come  here  to-day  without  superfluous 
scruples  simply  because  I  regard  your  brother  and 
you  as  very  different  parties.  I  see  no  connexion 
between  you.  Your  brother  was  mortally  ashamed 
of  you  both.  Lying  there  wounded  and  dying,  lying 
there  confounded  and  disgusted,  he  formally  apolo- 
gised to  me  for  your  conduct.  He  apologised  to  me 
for  that  of  his  mother." 

For  a  moment  the  effect  of  these  words  was  as  if 
he  had  struck  a  physical  blow.  A  quick  flush  leaped 
into  the  charged  faces  before  him  —  it  was  like  a  jolt 
of  full  glasses,  making  them  spill  their  wine.  Urbain 
uttered  two  words  which  Newman  but  half  heard, 
but  of  which  the  aftersense  came  to  him  in  the  rever- 
beration of  the  sound.  " Le  miserable!" 

"You  ^how  little  respect  for  the  afflicted  living," 
said  Madame  de  Bellegarde,  "  but  you  might  at  least 
respect  the  helpless  dead.  Don't  profane  —  don't 
touch  with  your  unholy  hands  —  the  memory  of  my 


innocent  son." 


"I  speak  the  simple  sacred  truth,"  Newman  now 
imperturbably  proceeded,  "and,  speaking  it  for  a 
purpose,  I  desire  you  shall  have  no  genuine  doubt  of 

431 


THE  AMERICAN 

it.  You  made  Valentin's  last  hour  an  hour  of  anguish, 
and  my  friend's  generous  spirit  repudiates  your 
abominable  act." 

Urbain  de  Bellegarde  had,  from  whatever  emotion, 
turned  so  pale  that  it  might  have  been  at  the  evoked 
spectre  of  his  brother;  but  not  for  an  appreciable 
instant  did  his  mother  lower  her  crest.  "You  have 
beau  jetty  as  we  say,  before  the  silence  of  the  grave, 
for  every  calumny  and  every  insult.  But  I  don't 
know,"  she  admirably  wound  up,  "that  it  in  the  least 


matters." 


"Ah,  I  don't  know  that  poor  Valentin's  apology 
particularly  does  either,"  Newman  reflectively  con- 
ceded. "I  pitied  him  certainly  more  for  having  to 
utter  it  than  I  felicitate  myself  even  now  for  your 
having  to  hear  it." 

The  Marquise  wrapt  herself  for  a  minute  in  a  high 
aloofness  so  entire,  so  of  her  whole  being,  as  he  could 
feel,  that  she  fairly  appeared  rather  to  contract  than 
to  expand  with  the  intensity  and  dignity  of  it;  and  out 
of  the  heart  of  this  withdrawn  extravagance  her  final 
estimate  of  their  case  sounded  clear.  "To  have 
broken  with  you,  sir,  almost  consoles  me;  and  you 
can  judge  how  much  that  says!  Urbain,  open  the 
door."  She  turned  away  with  an  imperious  motion 
to  her  son  and  passed  rapidly  down  the  length  of  the 
room.  The  Marquis  went  with  her  and  held  the 
door  open.  Newman  was  left  standing. 

He  lifted  a  finger  as  a  sign  to  M.  de  Bellegarde,  who 
closed  the  door  behind  his  mother  and  stood  waiting. 
Newman  slowly  advanced,  more  silent,  for  the  mo- 
ment, than  life.  The  two  men  stood  face  to  face. 

432 


THE  AMERICAN 

Then  our  friend  had  a  singular  sensation;  he  felt 
his  sense  of  wrong  almost  brim  over  into  gaiety. 
"Come,"  he  said,  "you  don't  treat  me  well.  At  least 
admit  that." 

M.  de  Bellegarde  looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot 
and  then  spoke  in  the  most  delicate,  best-bred  voice. 
"I  execrate  you  personally." 

"That's  the  way  I  feel  to  you,  but  for  politeness' 
s^ke  I  don't  say  it.  It's  singular  I  should  want  so 
much  to  be  your  brother-in-law,  but  I  can't  give  it 
up.  Let  me  try  once  more."  And  Newman  paused 
a  moment.  "You've  something  on  your  mind  and 
on  your  conscience,  your  mother  and  you  —  some- 
thing in  your  life  that  you've  kept  as  much  as  pos- 
sible in  the  dark  because  it  would  n't  look  well  in 
the  light  of  day.  You've  a  skeleton,  as  they  say,  in 
your  closet."  M.  de  Bellegarde  continued  to  look  at 
him  hard,  but  it  was  a  question  if  his  eyes  betrayed 
anything;  the  expression  of  his  eyes  was  always  so 
strange.  Newman  paused  again  and  then  went  on. 
"You've  done,  between  you,  somehow  and  at  some 
time,  something  still  more  base  —  wonderful  as  that 
may  seem  —  than  what  you've  done  to  me."  At  this 
M.  de  Bellegarde's  eyes  certainly  did  change;  they 
flickered  like  blown  candles.  Newman  could  feel 
him  turn  cold;  but  his  form  was  still  quite  perfect. 

"Continue,"  he  encouragingly  said. 

Newman  lifted  a  finger  and  made  it  waver  a  little 
in  the  air.  "Need  I  continue?  You  know  what 
I  mean." 

"Pray,  where  did  you  obtain  this  interesting  in- 
formation?" M.  de  Bellegarde  inordinately  fluted. 

433 


THE  AMERICAN 

"I  shall  be  strictly  accurate/'  said  Newman.  "I 
won't  pretend  to  know  more  than  I  do.  At  present 
that's  all  I  know.  You've  done  something  regularly 
nefarious,  something  that  would  ruin  you  if  it  were 
known,  something  that  would  disgrace  the  name 
you're  so  proud  of.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I've 
reason  to  believe  I  can  find  out  —  though  of  course 
I  had  much  rather  not.  Persist  in  your  present 
course,  however,  and  I  will  find  out.  Depart  from 
that  course,  let  your  sister  go  in  peace,  and  then 
fancy  how  I'll  leave  you  alone.  It's  a  bargain  ?" 

Urbain's  face  looked  to  him  now  like  a  mirror, 
very  smooth  fine  glass,  breathed  upon  and  blurred; 
but  what  he  would  have  liked  still  better  to  see  was 
a  spreading,  disfiguring  crack.  There  was  something 
of  that,  to  be  sure,  in  the  grimace  with  which  the 
Marquis  brought  out:  "My  brother  regaled  you  with 
this  infamy?" 

Newman  scantly  hesitated.  "Yes — it  was  a  treat!" 

The  grimace,  if  anything,  deepened.  "He  raved 
at  the  last  then  so  horribly  ?" 

"He  raved  if  I  find  nothing  out.  If  I  find  — what 
you  know  I  may  find  —  he  was  beautifully  inspired." 

M.  de  Bellegarde's  shoulders  declined  even  a  shrug. 
"Eh,  sir,  find  what  you  'damn  please'!" 

"What  I  say  has  no  weight  with  you  ?"  Newman 
was  thus  reduced  to  asking. 

"That's  for  you  to  judge." 

"No,  it's  for  you  to  judge  —  at  your  leisure. 
Think  it  over;  feel  yourself  all  round;  I'll  give  you 
jtn  hour  or  two.  I  can't  give  you  more,  for  how  do 
we  know  how  tight  they  may  n't  be  locking  youi 

434 


THE  AMERICAN 

sister  up?  Talk  it  o\ei  with  your  mother;  let  hei 
judge  what  weight  she  attaches.  She's  constitution- 
ally less  accessible  to  pressure  than  you,  I  think;  but 
en-fin^  as  you  say,  you'll  see.  I'll  go  and  wait  in  the 
village,  at  the  inn,  where  I  beg  you  to  let  me  know 
as  soon  as  possible.  Say  by  three  o'clock.  A  simple 
Yes  or  No  on  paper  will  do.  That  will  refer  to  your 
attaching  or  not  attaching  what  we  call  weight;  or 
better  still,  to  your  consenting  or  refusing  to  take 
your  hands  off  Madame  de  Cintre.  Only  you  under- 
stand that  if  you  do  engage  again  I  shall  expect  you 
this  time  to  stick  to  your  bargain."  And  with  this 
Newman  opened  the  door  to  let  himself  out.  The 
Marquis  made  no  motion,  and  his  guest  paused  but 
for  a  last  emphasis.  "I  can  give  you,  let  me  add,  no 
more  than  the  time."  Then  Newman  turned  away 
altogether  and  passed  out  of  the  house. 

He  felt  greatly  uplifted  by  what  he  had  been 
doing,  as  it  was  inevitable  some  emotion  should  pro- 
ceed for  him  from  the  evocation  of  the  spectre 
of  dishonour  for  a  family  a  thousand  years  old. 
But  he  went  back  to  the  inn  and  contrived  to  wait 
there,  deliberately,  for  the  next  two  hours.  He 
thought  it  more  than  probable  Urbain  would  give 
no  sign;  since  an  answer  to  his  challenge,  in  either 
case,  would  be  a  recognition  of  his  reference.  What 
he  most  expected  was  silence  —  in  other  words  defi- 
ance. He  prayed,  however,  that,  as  he  imaged  it, 
his  shot  might  bring  them  down.  It  did  bring,  by 
three  o'clock,  a  note,  delivered  by  a  footman;  a  note 
addressed  in  Urbain's  handsome  English  hand. 

"I  cannot  deny  myself  the  satisfaction  of  letting 
435 


THE  AMERICAN 

you  know  that  I  return  to  Paris  to-morrow,  with  my 
mother,  in  order  that  we  may  see  my  sister  and  con- 
firm her  in  the  resolution  which  is  the  most  effectual 
reply  to  a  delirium  extravagant  even  as  a  result  of 
your  injury.  —  HENRI-URBAIN  DE  BELLEGARDE." 

Newman  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket  and  con- 
tinued his  walk  up  and  down  the  inn  parlour.  He 
had  spent  most  of  his  time,  for  the  past  week,  in 
walking  up  and  down.  He  continued  to  measure  the 
length  of  the  little  salle  of  the  Armes  de  France  until 
the  day  began  to  wane,  when  he  went  forth  to  keep 
his  rendezvous  with  Mrs.  Bread.  The  path  leading 
up  the  hill  to  the  ruin  was  easy  to  find,  and  he  in 
a  short  time  had  followed  it  to  the  top.  He  passed 
beneath  the  rugged  arch  of  the  castle  wall  and  looked 
about  him  in  the  early  dusk  for  an  old  woman  in 
black.  The  castle  yard  was  empty,  but  the  door  of 
the  church  was  open.  He  went  into  the  little  nave 
and  of  course  found  a  deeper  dusk  than  without. 
A  couple  of  tapers,  however,  twinkled  on  the  altar 
and  just  helped  him  to  distinguish  a  figure  seated  by 
one  of  the  pillars.  Closer  inspection  led  him  to  re- 
cognise Mrs.  Bread,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  was 
dressed  with  unwonted  splendour.  She  wore  a  large 
black  silk  bonnet  with  imposing  bows  of  crape,  while 
an  old  black  satin  gown  disposed  itself  in  vaguely  lus- 
trous folds  about  her  person.  She  had  invoked  for 
the  occasion  the  highest  dignity  of  dress.  She  had 
been  sitting  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  but 
when  he  passed  before  her  she  looked  up  at  him  and 
then  rose. 

"Are  you  of  this  awful  faith,  Mrs.  Bread  ?" 

+36 


THE  AMERICAN 

"No,  indeed,  sir;  I'm  a  good  Church  of  England 
woman  —  very  Low.  But  I  thought  I  should  be  safer 
in  here  than  outside.  I  was  never  out  in  the  even- 
ing before,  sir,"  she  added. 

"We  shall  be  safer,"  he  returned,  "where  no  one 
can  hear  us."  And  he  led  the  way  back  into  the 
castle  court  and  then  followed  a  path  beside  the 
church,  which  he  was  sure  must  lead  into  another 
part  of  the  ruin.  He  was  not  deceived.  It  wandered 
along  the  crest  of  the  hill  and  terminated  before 
a  fragment  of  wall  pierced  by  a  rough  aperture  which 
had  once  been  a  door.  Through  this  aperture  New- 
man passed,  to  find  himself  in  a  nook  peculiarly 
favourable  to  quiet  conversation,  as  probably  many 
an  earnest  couple,  otherwise  assorted  than  our  friends, 
had  assured  themselves.  The  hill  sloped  abruptly 
away,  and  on  the  remnant  of  its  crest  were  scattered 
'  two  or  three  fragments  of  stone.  Beneath,  over  the 
plain,  lay  the  gathered  twilight,  through  which,  in 
the  near  distance,  gleamed  two  or  three  lights  from 
the  Fleurieres.  Mrs.  Bread  rustled  slowly  after  her 
guide,  and  Newman,  satisfying  himself  that  one  of 
the  fallen  stones  was  steady,  proposed  to  her  to  sit 
on  it.  She  cautiously  complied,  and  he  placed  him- 
self neat  her  on  another. 


XXII 

"I'M  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  coming,"  he 
began  with  observing.  "I  hope  it  won't  get  you  into 
trouble." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  be  missed.  My  lady,  in 
these  days,  is  not  fond  of  having  me  about  her." 
This  was  said  with  a  dry  lucidity  which  added  to 
his  sense  of  having  inspired  his  friend  with  con- 
fidence. 

"  From  the  first,  you  know,"  he  rejoined,  "you  took 
an  interest  in  my  prospects.  You  were  on  my  side. 
That  gratified  me,  I  assure  you.  And  now  that  you 
know  what  they've  done  to  me  I'm  sure  you  are  with 
me  all  the  more." 

"They've  not  done  well  —  I  must  say  it.  But  you 
must  n't  blame  the  poor  Countess;  they  pressed  her 
cruelly  hard." 

"I'd  give  a  million  of  dollars,"  he  remarked, 
"to  know  the  secret  of  such  successful  pressure  as 
that." 

Mrs.  Bread  sat  with  a  dull,  oblique  gaze  fixed  on 
the  Fleurieres  lights.  "They  worked  on  her  senti- 
ments, as  they  call  'em  here;  they  knew  that  was  the 
way.  She's  a  delicate  creature.  They  made  her  feel 
wicked.  She's  only  too  good." 

"Ah,  they  made  her  feel  wicked,"  said  Newman, 
slowly;  and  then  he  repeated  it.  "They  made  her 
feel  wicked  —  they  made  her  feel  wicked."  The 

438 


THE  AMERICAN 

words  represented  to  him  for  the  moment,  and  quite 
as  to  the  point  of  high  interest,  a  wondrous  triumph 
of  infernal  art. 

"It  was  because  she  was  so  good  that  she  gave  up 
—  poor  sweet  lady!"  added  Mrs.  Bread. 

"  But  she  was  better  to  them  than  to  me." 

"  She  was  afraid/'  said  Mrs.  Bread  very  confidently; 
"she  has  always  been  afraid,  or  at  least  for  a  long 
time.  Her  fear  was  there  —  it  was  always  like  a  pit 
that  yawned  for  her.  That  was  the  real  trouble,  sir. 
She  was  just  a  fair  peach,  I  may  say,  with  but  one 
little  speck.  She  had  one  little  sad  spot.  You  pushed 
her  into  the  sunshine,  sir,  and  it  almost  disappeared. 
Then  they  pulled  her  back  into  the  shade,  and  in  a 
moment  it  began  to  spread.  Before  we  knew  it  she 
was  gone.  She  was  a  delicate  creature." 

This  singular  attestation  of  Madame  de  Cintre's 
delicacy,  for  all  its  singularity,  set  Newman's  wound 
aching  afresh.  "I  see.  She  knew  something  bad 
about  her  mother." 

"No,  sir,  she  knew  nothing."  And  Mrs.  Bread 
held  her  head  very  stiff  and  kept  her  watch  on  the 
glimmering  windows  of  the  residence. 

"She  guessed  something  then,  or  suspected  it." 

"She  was  afraid  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Bread. 

"  But  you  know,  at  any  rate." 

She  slowly  turned  her  vague  eyes  on  him,  squeez- 
ing her  hands  together  in  her  lap.  "You're  not  quite 
faithful,  sir.  I  thought  it  was  to  tell  me  about  the 
Count  you  asked  me  to  come." 

"  Oh,  the  more  we  talk  of  the  Count  the  better," 
he  declared.  "That's  exactly  what  I  want.  I  was 

439 


THE  AMERICAN 

with  him,  as  I  told  you,  in  his  last  hour.  He  was  in 
a  great  deal  of  pain,  but  he  was  quite  himself.  You 
know  what  that  means;  he  was  bright  and  charming 
and  clever." 

"Oh,  he'd  always  be  clever,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bread. 
"And  did  he  know  of  your  trouble  ?" 

"Yes,  he  guessed  it  of  himself." 

"And  what  did  he  say  to  it  ?" 

"He  said  it  was  a  disgrace  to  his  name  —  but  it 
was  not  the  first." 

"Lord,  Lord!"  she  murmured. 

"He  said  his  mother  and  his  brother  had  once  put 
their  heads  together  to  some  still  more  odious  effect/ 

"You  should  n't  have  listened  to  that,  sir." 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  I  did  listen,  and  I  don't  forget 
it.  Now  I  want  to  know  what  it  is  they  did." 

Mrs.  Bread  gave  a  soft  moan.  "And  you Ve  enticed 
me  up  into  this  strange  place  to  tell  you  ?" 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Newman.  "I  won't  say 
a  word  that  shall  be  disagreeable  to  you.  Tell  me  as 
it  suits  you  —  and  tell  me  when  it  suits  you.  Only 
remember  that  it  was  the  Count's  dying  wish  that 
you  should." 

"Did  he  say  that?" 

"He  said  it  with  his  last  breath:  'Tell  Mrs.  Bread 
I  told  you  to  ask  her." 

"Why  did  n't  he  tell  you  himself?" 

"It  was  too  long  a  story  for  a  dying  man;  he  was 
incapable  of  the  effort  and  the  pain.  He  could  only 
say  that  he  wanted  me  to  know  —  that,  wronged  as 
I  was,  it  was  my  right  to  know." 

"But  how  will  it  help  you,  sir  ?"  she  asked. 
440 


THE  AMERICAN 

"That's  for  me  to  decide.  The  Count  believed  it 
would,  and  that's  why  he  told  me.  Your  name  was 
almost  the  last  word  he  spoke." 

This  statement  produced  in  her  a  sharp  checked 
convulsion;  she  shook  her  clasped  hands  slowly  up 
and  down.  "Pardon  me  if  I  take  a  great  liberty. 
Is  it  the  solemn  truth  you're  speaking?  I  must  ask 
you  that;  don't  you  see  that  I  must,  sir?" 

"There's  no  offence.  It  is  the  solemn  truth;  I  sol- 
emnly swear  it.  The  Count  himself  would  certainly 
have  told  me  more  if  he  had  been  able." 

"Oh,  sir,  if  he  had  known  more!" 

"Don't  you  suppose  he  did  know?" 

"There's  no  saying  what  he  knew  about  any- 
thing," she  almost  wailingly  conceded.  "He  was 
clever  to  that  grand  extent.  He  could  make  you 
believe  he  knew  things  he  did  n't,  and  that  he  did  n't 
know  others  he  had  better  not  have  known." 

"I  suspect  he  knew  something  about  his  brother 
that  made  the  Marquis  mind  his  eye!"  Newman  pro- 
pounded. "He  made  the  Marquis  feel  him  pretty 
badly.  What  he  wanted  now  was  to  put  me  in  his 
place;  he  wanted  to  give  me  a  chance  to  make  the 
Marquis  feel  me." 

"Mercy  on  us,"  cried  the  old  waiting-woman, 
"how  malicious  we  all  are,  to  be  sure!" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Newman;  "some  of  us  are 
malicious,  certainly.  I'm  very  angry,  I'm  very  sore, 
and  I'm  very  bitter,  but  I  don't  know  that  I'm  mali- 
cious. I've  been  cruelly  injured.  They've  hurt  me 
and  I  want  to  hurt  them.  I  don't  deny  that;  on  the 
contrary,  I  tell  you  plainly  that  that's  the  use  I  want 

441 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  make  of  any  information  you're  so  good  as  to 
give  me." 

Mrs.  Bread  seemed  to  hold  her  breath.  "You  want 
to  publish  them  — you  want  to  shame  them  ?" 

"  I  want  to  bring  them  down  —  down,  down, 
down!  I  want  to  turn  the  tables  on  them  —  I  want 
to  mortify  them  as  they  mortified  me.  They  took  me 
up  into  a  high  place  and  made  me  stand  there  for  all 
the  world  to  see  me,  and  then  they  stole  behind  me 
and  pushed  me  into  this  bottomless  pit  where  I  lie 
howling  and  gnashing  my  teeth!  I  made  a  fool  of 
myself  before  all  their  friends;  but  I  shall  make  some- 
thing worse  of  them." 

This  passionate  profession,  which  Newman  uttered 
with  the  greater  zeal  that  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
felt  the  relief  words  at  once  as  hard  and  as  careful  as 
hammer-taps  could  give  his  spirit,  kindled  two  small 
sparks  in  Mrs.  Bread's  fixed  eyes.  "I  suppose  you've 
a  right  to  your  anger,  sir;  but  think  of  the  dishonour 
you'll  draw  down  on  the  Countess." 

"  If  the  Countess  is  to  be  buried  alive,"  he  cried, 
"what's  honour  or  dishonour  to  her  ever  again? 
The  door  of  the  living  tomb  is  at  this  moment  closing 
behind  her." 

"Yes,  it's  most  awful,"  Mrs.  Bread  moaned. 

"  She  has  moved  off,  like  her  brother  Valentin,  to 
give  me  room  to  work.  It's  as  if  it  were  all  done  on 
purpose." 

"Surely,"  said  Mrs.  Bread,  who  seemed  impressed 
by  the  ingenuity  of  this  reflection.  She  was  silent 
some  moments;  then  she  added:  "And  would  you 
bring  my  lady  before  the  courts  ?" 

442 


THE  AMERICAN 

"The  courts  care  nothing  for  my  lady/'  Newman 
replied.  "If  she  has  committed  a  crime  she'll  be 
nothing  for  the  courts  but  a  wicked  old  woman." 

"And  will  they  hang  her,  sir  ?" 

"That  depends  upon  what  she  has  done."  And 
Newman  eyed  his  friend  intently. 

"It  would  break  up  the  family  most  terribly,  sir!" 

"It's  high  time  such  a  family  should  be  broken 
up!"  he  outrageously  declared. 

"And  me  at  my  age  out  of  place,  sir!"  sighed  Mrs. 
Bread. 

"Oh,  I'll  take  care  of  you!  You  shall  come  and 
live  with  me.  You  shall  be  my  housekeeper  or  any- 
thing you  like.  You  shall  sit  and  be  waited  on  and 
twiddle  your  thumbs.  I'll  pension  you  for  life." 

"Dear,  dear,  sir,  you  think  of  everything."  And 
she  seemed  to  fall  a-brooding. 

He  watched  her  a  while;  then  he  said  suddenly: 
"Ah,  Mrs.  Bread,  you're  too  foolishly  fond  of  mj 
lady!" 

She  looked  at  him  as  quickly.  "I  would  n't  have 
you  say  that,  sir.  I  don't  think  it  any  part  of  my 
duty  to  be  fond  of  my  lady.  I've  served  her  faith- 
fully this  many  a  year;  but  if  she  were  to  die  to- 
morrow I  believe  before  heaven  I  should  n't  shed 
a  tear  for  her."  Then  after  a  pause,  "I've  no  such 
great  reason  to  love  her!"  Mrs.  Bread  added.  "The 
most  she  has  done  for  me  has  been  not  to  turn  me 
out  of  the  house."  Newman  felt  that  decidedly  his 
companion  was  more  and  more  confidential  —  that, 
if  luxury  is  corrupting,  Mrs.  Bread's  conservative 
habits  were  already  relaxed  by  the  spiritual  comfoft 

443 


THE   AMERICAN 

of  this  preconcerted  interview,  in  an  extraordinary 
place,  with  a  free-spoken  millionaire  All  his  native 
shrewdness  admonished  him  that  his  part  was  simply 
to  let  her  take  her  time  —  let  the  charm  of  the  occa- 
sion work.  So  he  said  nothing;  he  only  bent  on  her 
his  large  benevolence  while  she  nursed  her  lean 
elbows.  "My  lady  once  did  me  a  great  wrong,"  she 
went  on  at  last.  "She  has  a  terrible  tongue  when 
she's  put  out.  It  was  many  a  year  ago,  but  I've 
never  forgotten  it.  I've  never  mentioned  it  to  a 
human  creature;  I've  kept  my  grudge  to  myself. 
I  dare  say  I've  been  wicked,  but  my  grudge  has 
grown  old  with  me.  It  has  grown  good  for  nothing 
too,  I  dare  say;  but  it  has  lived  and  lived,  as  I  myself 
have  lived.  It  will  die  when  I  die  —  not  before!" 

"And  what  is  your  grudge,  Mrs.  Bread?"  New- 
man blandly  enquired. 

Mrs.  Bread  dropped  her  eyes  and  hesitated.  "If 
I  were  a  foreigner,  sir,  I  should  make  less  of  telling 
you;  it  comes  harder  to  a  decent  Englishwoman. 
But  I  sometimes  think  I've  picked  up  too  many 
foreign  ways.  What  I  was  telling  you  belongs  to 
a  time  when  I  was  much  younger  and  of  a  quite 
different  appearance  altogether  to  what  I  am  now. 
I  had  a  very  high  colour,  sir,  if  you  can  believe  it; 
indeed  I  was  a  very  smart  lass.  My  lady  was  younger 
too,  and  the  late  Marquis  was  youngest  of  all  —  I 
mean  in  the  way  he  went  on,  sir;  he  had  a  very  high, 
bold  spirit;  he  was  a  very  grand  gentleman.  He  was 
fond  of  his  pleasure,  like  most  foreigners,  and  it  must 
be  owned  he  sometimes  went  rather  below  him  to 
take  it.  My  lady  was  often  jealous,  and  if  you'll 

444 


THE  AMERICAN 

believe  it,  sir,  she  did  me  the  honour  to  have  an  eye 
on  me.  One  day  I  had  a  red  ribbon  in  my  cap,  and 
she  flew  out  at  me  and  ordered  me  to  take  it  off. 
She  accused  me  of  putting  it  on  to  make  the  Marquis 
look  at  me  —  look  in  the  way  he  should  n't.  I  don't 
know  that  I  was  impertinent,  but  I  spoke  up  like  an 
honest  girl  and  did  n't  count  my  words.  A  red  ribbon 
indeed!  As  if  it  was  my  ribbons  the  Marquis  looked 
at!  My  lady  knew  afterwards  that  I  was  perfectly 
respectable,  yet  she  never  said  a  word  to  show  she 
believed  it.  But  the  Marquis  did  —  he  knew  the 
rights  of  me,"  Mrs.  Bread  presently  added;  "and 
I  took  off  my  red  ribbon  and  put  it  away  in  a  drawer, 
where  I  have  kept  it  to  this  day.  It's  faded  now,  it's 
a  very  pale  pink;  but  there  it  lies.  My  grudge  has 
faded  too;  the  red  has  all  gone  out  of  it;  but  it  lies 
hers  yet."  And  Mrs.  Bread  touched  with  old  testify- 
:ng  knuckles  her  black  satin  bodice. 

Newman  listened  with  interest  to  this  decent  yet 
vivid  narrative,  which  seemed  to  have  opened  up  the 
deeps  of  memory  to  his  companion.  Then  as  she 
remained  silent  and  seemed  rather  to  lose  herself  in 
retrospective  meditation  en  her  perfect  respectabil- 
ity, he  ventured  on  a  short  cut  to  his  goal.  "So 
Madame  de  Bellegarde  was  jealous;  I  see.  And  the 
Marquis  admired  pretty  women  without  distinction 
of  class.  I  suppose  one  must  n't  be  hard  on  him,  for 
they  probably  did  n't  all  behave  so  discreetly  as  you. 
But  years  afterwards  it  could  hardly  have  been  jeal- 
ousy that  turned  his  wife  into  a  criminal." 

Mrs.  Bread  gave  a  weary  sigh.  "We're  using 
dreadful  words,  sir,  but  I  don't  care  now.  I  see 

145 


THE  AMERICAN 

you've  your  idea,  and  I've  no  will  of  my  own.  My 
will  was  the  will  of  my  children,  as  I  called  them;  but 
I've  lost  my  children  now.  They're  dead  and  gone 
—  I  may  say  it  of  both  of  them;  and  what  should 
I  care  for  the  living?  What's  any  one  in  the  house 
to  me  now  —  what  am  I  to  them  ?  My  lady  objects  to 
me — has  objected  to  me  these  thirty  years.  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  be  something  to  young  Madame 
Urbain,  though  I  never  was  nurse  to  the  present  Mar- 
quis. When  he  was  a  baby  I  was  too  young;  they 
wouldn't  trust  me  with  him.  But  his  wife  told  her 
own  maid,  Mamselle  Clarisse,  the  opinion  she  had 
of  me.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  hear  it,  sir." 

"Oh,  would  n't  I  ?"  Newman  almost  panted. 

"She  said  that  if  I'd  sit  in  her  children's  school- 
room I  should  do  very  well  for  a  penwiper!  When 
things  have  come  to  that  I  don't  think  I  need  stand 
on  ceremony." 

"  I  never  heard  of  anything  so  vicious ! "  Newman 
rejoicingly  declared.  "Go  on,  Mrs.  Bread." 

Mrs.  Bread,  however,  relapsed  again  into  troubled 
reserve,  and  all  he  could  do  was  to  fold  his  arms  and 
wait.  But  at  last  she  appeared  to  have  set  her  memo- 
ries in  order.  "It  was  when  the  late  Marquis  was  an 
old  man  and  his  eldest  son  had  been  two  years  mar- 
ried. It  was  when  the  time  came  on  for  marrying 
Mademoiselle  Claire;  that's  the  way  they  talk  of  it 
here,  you  know,  sir  —  as  you  might  talk  of  sending 
a  heifer  to  market.  The  Marquis's  health  was  bad; 
he  was  sadly  broken  down.  My  lady  had  picked  out 
M.  de  Cintre,  for  no  good  reason  that  I  could  see. 
But  there  are  reasons,  I  very  well  know,  that  are 

44.6 


THE  AMERICAN 

beyond  me,  and  you  must  be  high  in  the  world  to 
catch  all  that's  under  and  behind.  Old  M.  de 
Cintre  was  very  high,  and  my  lady  thought  him 
almost  as  good  as  herself;  that's  saying  as  much  as 
you  please.  Mr.  Urbain  took  sides  with  his  mother, 
as  he  always  did.  The  trouble,  I  believe,  was  that 
my  lady  would  give  very  little  money  —  to  go  with 
the  young  lady;  and  all  the  other  gentlemen  wanted 
a  bigger  settlement.  It  was  only  M.  de  Cintre  who 
was  content.  The  Lord  willed  it  he  should  have  that 
one  soft  spot;  it  was  the  only  one  he  had.  He  may 
have  had  very  grand  connexions,  and  he  certainly 
made  grand  bows  and  speeches  and  flourishes;  but 
that,  I  think,  was  all  the  measure  of  his  honour. 
I  think  he  was  like  what  I  've  heard  of  comedians; 
not  that  I've  ever  seen  one.  But  I  know  he  painted 
his  strange  face.  He  might  paint  it  all  he  would,  he 
could  never  make  me  like  it!  The  Marquis  could  n't 
abide  him,  and  declared  that  sooner  than  take  such 
a  husband  as  that,  his  daughter,  whom  he  was  so 
fond  of,  should  stop  as  she  was.  He  and  my  lady  had 
a  great  scene;  it  came  even  to  our  ears  in  the  servants' 
hall.  It  was  not  their  first  quarrel,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told.  They  were  not  a  loving  couplt,  but  they 
did  n't  often  come  to  words,  because  after  a  while 
neither  had  them  to  waste;  they  had  too  much  use 
for  them  elsewhere  and  otherwise.  My  lady  had  long 
ago  got  over  'minding'  —  minding,  I  mean,  the  worst; 
for  she  had  had  plenty  of  assistance  for  throwing 
things  off.  In  this,  I  must  say,  they  were  very  well 
matched.  The  Marquis  was  one  who  would  but  too 
easily  go  as  you  please  —  he  had  the  temper  of  the 

447 


THE  AMERICAN 

perfect  gentleman.  He  got  angry  once  a  year  —  he 
kept  to  that;  but  then  it  was  very  bad.  He  always 
took  to  bed  directly  afterwards.  This  time  I  speak 
of  he  took  to  bed  as  usual ;  but  he  never  got  up  again. 
I'm  afraid  he  was  paying  for  the  free  life  he  had  led; 
is  n't  it  true  they  mostly  do,  sir,  when  they  get  old 
and  sad  ?  My  lady  and  Mr.  Urbain  kept  quiet,  but 
I  know  my  lady  wrote  letters  to  M.  de  Cintre.  The 
Marquis  got  worse  and  the  doctors  gave  him  up. 
My  lady  gave  him  up  too,  and  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  she  gave  him  up  as  I've  seen  her  clap  together 
—  with  a  sound  to  make  you  jump  —  the  covers  of 
a  book  she  has  read  enough  of.  When  once  he  was 
out  of  the  way  she  could  do  what  she  wished  with  her 
daughter,  and  it  was  all  arranged  that  my  poor  child 
and  treasure  should  be  handed  over  to  M.  de  Cintre. 
You  don't  know  what  Mademoiselle  was  in  those 
days,  sir;  she  was  the  sweetest,  gentlest,  fairest!  — 
and  guessed  as  little  of  what  was  going  on  around  her 
as  the  lamb  can  guess  the  butcher.  I  used  to  nurse 
my  unhappy  master  and  was  always  in  his  room.  It 
was  here  at  Fleurieres,  in  the  autumn.  We  had  a 
doctor  from  Paris,  who  came  and  stayed  two  or  three 
weeks  in  the  house.  Then  there  came  two  others, 
and  there  was  a  consultation,  and  these  two  others, 
as  I  said,  declared  the  Marquis  could  n't  come  round. 
After  this  they  went  off,  pocketing  their  fees,  but  the 
other  one  stopped  over  and  did  what  he  could.  M.  de 
Bellegarde  himself  kept  crying  out  that  he  refused  to 
be  given  up,  that  he  insisted  on  getting  better,  that  he 
would  live  and  look  after  his  daughter.  Mademoiselle 
Claire  and  the  Vicomte  —  that  was  Mr.  Valentin,  you 

448 


THE  AMERICAN 

know  —  were  both  in  the  house.  The  doctor  was  a 
clever  man  —  that  I  could  see  myself  —  and  I  think 
he  believed  the  Marquis  might  recover  with  just  the 
right  things  carefully  done.  We  took  good  care  of 
him,  he  and  I,  between  us,  and  one  day,  when  my 
lady  had  almost  ordered  her  mourning,  my  patient 
suddenly  began  to  mend.  He  took  a  better  turn  and 
came  up  so  wonderfully  that  the  doctor  said  he  was 
out  of  danger.  What  was  killing  him  was  the  dread- 
ful fits  of  pain  in  his  stomach.  But  little  by  little  they 
stopped,  and  before  I  knew  it  he  had  begun  again  to 
have  his  joke  at  me.  The  doctor  found  something 
that  gave  him  great  comfort  —  some  grand  light- 
coloured  mixture,  a  wonderful  drug  (I'm  sure  I  for- 
get the  name)  that  we  kept  in  a  great  bottle  on  the 
chimney-piece.  I  used  to  give  it  to  him  through  a 
glass  tube;  it  always  made  him  easier.  Presently  the 
doctor  went  away,  after  telling  me  to  keep  on  with 
the  medicine  whenever  he  was  bad.  After  that  there 
was  a  different  sort  of  person  from  Poitiers — he  came 
every  day.  So  we  were  alone  in  the  house — my  lady 
and  her  poor  husband  and  their  three  children. 
Madame  Urbain  had  gone  away,  with  her  first  small 
child,  but  a  baby  then,  to  her  mother's.  You  know 
she  's  ver}  lively,  and  her  maid  told  me  she  did  n't 
like  to  be  where  people  were  dying."  Mrs.  Bread 
had  again  a  drop,  but  she  went  on  soon  and  with  the 
same  quiet  consistency:  "I  think  you've  guessed,  sir, 
that  when  the  Marquis  began  to  give  hopes  again  my 
lady  was  disappointed."  And  once  more  she  paused, 
bending  on  Newman  a  face  that  seemed  to  growwhiter 
as  the  darkness  settled  down  on  them. 

449 


THE  AMERICAN 

He  had  listened  eagerly — with  an  eagerness  preatef 
even  than  that  with  which  he  had  bent  his  ear  t3 
poor  Valentin's  weak  lips.  Every  now  and  then,  as 
his  companion  looked  up  at  him,  she  reminded  him 
of  some  old  black  cat,  mild  and  sleek,  protracting  the 
enjoyment  of  a  dish  of  rich  milk.  Even  her  triumph 
was  measured  and  decorous;  even  her  justice  forbore 
to  ratth  the  scales.  "Late  one  night,"  she  soon  con- 
tinued, "I  was  sitting  by  the  Marquis  in  his  room, 
the  great  red  room  in  the  west  tower.  He  had  been 
complaining  a  little  and  I  had  given  him  a  spoonful 
of  the  remedy  that  so  seldom  failed  to  ease  him.  My 
lady  had  been  there  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening; 
she  sat  for  more  than  an  hour  by  his  bed.  Then  she 
went  away  and  left  me  alone.  After  midnight  she 
came  back  and  Mr.  Urbain  was  with  her.  They  went 
to  the  bed  and  looked  at  the  Marquis,  and  my  lady 
took  hold  of  his  hand.  Then  she  turned  to  me  and 
said  he  was  not  so  well;  I  remember  how  the  Marquis, 
without  a  word,  lay  staring  at  her.  I  can  see  his  white 
face  at  this  moment  in  the  great  black  square  between 
the  bed-curtains.  I  said  I  did  n't  think  he  was  very 
bad,  and  she  told  me  to  go  to  bed  —  she  would  sit 
a  while  with  him.  When  he  saw  me  going  he  gave 
a  sound  like  a  scared  child  and  called  out  to  me  not 
to  leave  him;  but  Mr.  Urbain  opened  the  door  for 
me  and  pointed  the  way  out.  The  present  Marquis 
—  perhaps  you  Ve  noticed,  sir  —  has  a  very  high  way 
of  giving  orders,  and  I  was  there  to  take  orders. 
I  went  to  my  room,  but  I  was  n't  easy;  I  could  n't 
tell  you  why.  I  did  n't  undress;  I  sat  there  waiting 
and  listening.  For  what  would  you  have  said,  sir  ? 

450 


THE  AMERICAN 

I  could  n't  have  told  you,  since  surely  a  poor  gentle- 
man, however  helpless,  might  be  in  safety  at  such 
a  crisis  with  his  wife  and  his  son.  It  was  as  if  I  ex- 
pected to  hear  his  voice  moan  after  me  again.  I  lis- 
tened, but  I  heard  nothing.  It  was  a  very  still  night; 
I  never  knew  a  night  so  still.  At  last  the  very  still- 
ness itself  seemed  to  frighten  me,  and  I  came  out  of 
my  room  and  went  very  softly  downstairs.  In  the 
anteroom,  outside  of  where  his  father  was,  I  found 
the  Count,  as  he  then  was,  walking  up  and  down. 
He  asked  me  what  I  wanted,  and  I  said  I  had  re- 
turned to  relieve  my  lady.  He  said  he  would  relieve 
my  lady  and  ordered  me  back  to  bed;  but  as  I  stood 
there,  unwilling  to  turn  away,  the  door  of  the  room 
opened  and  my  lady  herself  came  out.  I  noticed  she 
was  very  pale;  she  was  altogether  extraordinary.  She 
looked  a  moment  at  the  Count  and  at  me,  and  then 
held  out  her  arms  to  the  Count.  He  went  to  her  and 
she  fell  upon  him  and  hid  her  face.  I  brushed  quickly 
past  her  into  the  room  and  came  to  the  Marquis's  bed. 
He  was  lying  there  very  white  and  with  his  eyes  shut; 
you  could  have  taken  him  for  a  corpse.  I  took  hold  of 
his  hand  and  spoke  to  him,  but  it  was  as  if  I  had  been 
dealing  with  the  dead.  Then  I  turned  round;  my  lady 
and  Mr.  Urbain  were  there.  'My  poor  Bread/  said 
my  lady,  *M.  le  Marquis  is  gone/  Mr.  Urbain  knelt 
down  by  the  bed  and  said  softly  'Mon  pere,mon  pere.' 
I  thought  it  most  prodigious,  and  asked  my  lady 
what  in  the  world  had  happened  and  why  she  had  n't 
called  me.  She  said  nothing  had  happened;  that  she 
had  only  been  sitting  there  with  him  in  perfect  still- 
ness, She  had  closed  her  eyes,  thinking  she  mighl 

451 


THE  AMERICAN 

sleep,  and  she  had  slept  she  did  n't  know  how  Icng. 
When  she  woke  up  all  was  over.  'It's  surely  death, 
my  son,  it's  unmistakeably  death,'  she  said  to  the 
Count.  Mr.  Urbain  said  they  must  have  the  doctor 
immediately  from  Poitiers,  and  that  he  would  ride  off 
and  fetch  him.  He  kissed  his  father's  face  —  oh !  — 
and  then  he  kissed  his  mother  and  went  away.  My 
lady  and  I  stood  there  at  the  bedside.  As  I  looked  at 
my  poor  master  it  came  to  me  ever  so  sharply  that  he 
was  n't  dead,  that  he  was  only  in  a  stupor  of  weak- 
ness. And  then  my  lady  repeated  'My  poor  Bread, 
it's  death,  it's  just  death';  and  I  said  'Yes,  my  lady, 
it's  certainly  death.'  I  said  just  the  opposite  to  what 
I  believed;  it  was  my  particular  notion.  Then  my 
lady  said  we  must  wait  for  the  doctor,  and  we  sat 
there  and  waited.  It  was  a  long  time;  the  poor  Mar- 
quis neither  stirred  nor  changed.  'I've  seen  death 
before,'  said  my  lady,  'and  it's  terribly  like  this/ 
'Yes,  please,  my  lady,'  said  I;  and  I  thought  things 
I  did  n't  say.  The  night  wore  away  without  the 
Count's  coming  back,  and  the  Marquise  began  to  be 
frightened.  She  was  afraid  he  had  had  an  accident 
in  the  dark  or  met  with  some  prowling  people.  Ar 
last  she  got  so  restless  that  she  went  below  to  watch 
in  the  court  for  his  return.  I  sat  there  alone  and  the 
Marquis  never  stirred." 

Here  Mrs.  Bread  paused  again,  and,  for  her  lis- 
tener, the  most  expert  story-teller  could  n't  have  been 
more  thrilling.  Newman  made  almost  the  motion  of 
turning  the  page  of  a  "detective  story."  "So  he  was 
dead!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Three  days  later  he  was  in  his  grave,"  said  Mrs. 
452 


THE   AMERICAN 

Bread  sententiously.  "In  a  little  while  I  went  away 
to  the  front  of  the  house  and  looked  out  into  the  court, 
and  there,  before  long,  I  saw  Mr.  Urbain  ride  in  alone. 
I  waited  a  bit  to  hear  him  come  upstairs  with  his 
mother,  but  they  stopped  below  and  I  returned  to  the 
other  room.  I  went  to  the  bed  and  held  up  the  light 
to  him,  but  I  don't  know  why  I  did  n't  let  the  candle- 
stick fall.  The  Marquis's  eyes  were  open  —  open 
wide!  they  were  staring  at  me.  I  knelt  down  beside 
him  and  took  his  hands  and  begged  him  to  tell  me,  in 
the  holy  name  of  wonder,  if  he  was  truly  alive  or  what 
or  where  he  was.  Still  he  looked  at  me  a  long  time, 
and  then  made  me  a  sign  to  put  my  ear  close  to  him. 
'I'm  dead,  my  dear,'  he  said,  'I'm  dreadfully  dead. 
The  Marquise  has  killed  me.  Yes.'  I  was  all  in  a 
tremble.  I  did  n't  understand  him.  I  did  n't  know 
what  had  become  of  him:  it  was  so  as  if  the  dead  had 
been  speaking.  'But  you'll  get  well  now,  sir,'  I  said. 
And  then  he  whimpered  again,  ever  so  weak:  'I 
would  n't  get  well  for  a  kingdom.  I  would  n't  be  that 
woman's  husband  again/  And  then  he  said  more; 
he  said  she  had  murdered  him.  I  asked  him  what  she 
had  done  to  him  and  I  remember  his  very  words: 
'She  has  cruelly  taken  my  life,  as  true  as  I  lie  here 
finished.  And  she'll  do  the  same  to  my  daughter,' 
he  said;  'my  poor  unhappy  child.'  And  he  begged 
me  to  prevent  that,  and  then  he  said  he  was  dying, 
he  was  'knowingly'  dead.  I  was  afraid  to  move  or  to 
leave  him;  I  was  almost  as  dead  as  himself.  All  of 
a  sudden  he  asked  me  to  get  a  pencil  and  write  for 
him;  and  then  I  had  to  tell  him  I  could  n't  manage 
that  sort  of  thing.  He  asked  me  to  hold  him  up  in 

453 


THE  AMERICAN 

bed  while  he  wrote  himself,  and  I  said  he  could  never, 
never  trace  a  line.  But  he  seemed  to  have  a  kind  of 
terror  that  gave  him  strength.  I  found  a  pencil  in  the 
room  and  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  book,  and  I  put  the 
paper  on  the  book  and  the  pencil  into  his  hand,  and 
I  moved  the  candle  near  him.  You'll  think  all  this 
monstrous  strange,  sir  —  and  I  shall  understand  if 
you  scarce  believe  me.  But  I  must  tell  things  as  they 
happened  to  me  —  the  rest  is  with  Them  that  know 
all!  Strangest  of  all  was  it,  no  doubt,  that  I  believed 
it  had  somehow  been  done  to  him  as  he  said  and  that 
I  was  eager  to  help  him  to  write.  I  sat  on  the  bed 
and  put  my  arm  round  him  and  held  him  up.  I  felt 
very  strong  when  it  came  to  that;  I  believe  I  could 
have  lifted  him  and  carried  him.  It  was  a  wonder 
how  he  wrote,  but  he  did  write,  in  a  big  scratching 
hand;  he  almost  covered  one  side  of  the  paper.  It 
seemed  a  long  time;  I  suppose  it  was  three  or  four 
minutes.  He  was  groaning  terribly  all  the  while,  but 
at  last  he  said  it  was  ended,  and  I  let  him  down  upon 
his  pillows,  and  he  gave  me  the  paper  and  told  me  to 
fold  it  and  hide  it,  and  to  give  it  to  those  who'd  act 
on  it  according  to  right.  'Who  do  you  mean  ?'  I  said. 
'Who  are  those  who'll  act  on  it  ?'  But  he  made  some 
sound  for  all  answer;  he  could  n't  speak  —  he  was 
spent.  In  a  few  minutes  he  told  me  to  go  and  look  at 
the  bottle  on  the  chimney-piece.  I  knew  the  bottle 
he  meant,  the  remedy  we  were  never  without  and  that 
we  felt  to  be  regularly  precious.  I  went  and  looked  at 
it,  but  it  was  empty  of  every  drop,  as  if  it  had  been 
turned  upside  down.  When  I  came  back  his  eyes 
were  open  —  oh  so  pitifully!  —  and  he  was  staring  at 

454 


THE  AMERICAN 

me;  but  soon  he  closed  them  and  he  said  no  wrre. 
I  hid  the  paper  in  my  dress;  I  did  n't  look  at  whar  * .  s 
written  on  it,  though  I  can  read  very  well,  sir,  if  I 
have  n't  a  hand  for  the  pen.  I  sat  down  near  the  bed, 
but  it  was  nearly  half  an  hour  before  my  lady  and  the 
Count  came  in.  The  Marquis  looked  as  lost  as  when 
they  had  left  him,  and  I  never  said  a  word  of  his 
having  revived.  Mr.  Urbain  said  the  doctor  had  been 
called  to  a  person  in  childbirth,  but  had  promised  to 
set  out  for  Fleurieres  immediately.  In  another  half- 
hour  he  arrived,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  examined 
his  patient  he  said  we  had  had  a  false  alarm.  The 
poor  gentleman  was  very  low,  but  was  still  living. 
I  watched  my  lady  and  her  son,  on  that,  to  see  if  they 
looked  at  each  other,  and  I'm  obliged  to  admit  they 
Jid  n't.  The  doctor  said  there  was  no  reason  he 
should  die;  he  had  been  going  on  so  well.  And  then 
he  wanted  to  know  how  he  had  suddenly  taken  such 
a  turn;  he  had  left  him  so  quiet  and  natural.  My 
lady  told  her  little  story  again  —  what  she  had  told 
Mr.  Urbain  and  me  —  and  the  doctor  looked  at  her 
and  said  nothing.  He  stayed  all  the  next  day  at  the 
chateau,  and  hardly  left  the  Marquis.  I  was  always 
there,  and  I  think  I  may  assure  you  at  least  that  I  lost 
nothing.  Mademoiselle  and  the  Vicomte  came  and 
looked  at  their  father,  but  he  never  stirred.  It  was 
a  strange  deathly  stupor.  My  lady  was  always 
about;  her  face  was  as  white  as  her  husband's,  and 
she  looked  very  proud  and  hard,  as  I  had  seen  her 
look  when  her  orders  or  her  wishes  had  been  dis- 
obeyed. It  was  as  if  the  poor  Marquis  had  gone 
against  her  intention;  and  the  way  she  took  it  from 

455 


THE  AMERICAN 

him  made  me  afraid  of  her.  The  local  apothecary 
kept  him  along  through  the  day,  and  we  waited  for 
the  gentleman  from  Paris,  who,  as  I  tell  you,  had 
already  stayed  here.  They  had  telegraphed  for  him 
early  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  evening  he  arrived. 
He  talked  a  bit  outside  with  the  other  one,  and  then 
they  came  in  to  see  their  malade  together.  I  was  with 
him,  and  so  was  Mr.  Urbain.  My  lady  had  been  to 
receive  the  great  man,  and  she  did  n't  come  back 
with  him  into  the  room.  He  sat  down  by  the  Mar- 
quis —  I  can  see  him  there  now  with  his  hand  on  the 
Marquis's  wrist  and  Mr.  Urbain  watching  them  with 
a  little  looking-glass  in  his  hand.  'I'm  sure  he's 
better,'  said  our  country  doctor;  'I'm  sure  he'll  come 
back.'  A  few  moments  after  he  had  spoken  the  Mar- 
quis opened  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  waking  up,  and 
looked  from  one  of  us  to  the  other,  I  saw  him  look  at 
me  from  very,  very  far  off,  and  yet  very  hard  indeed, 
as  you  might  say.  At  the  same  moment  my  lady  came 
in  on  tiptoe;  she  came  up  to  the  bed  and  put  in  her 
head  between  me  and  the  Count.  The  Marquis  saw 
her  and  gave  a  sound  like  the  wail  of  a  lost  soul.  He 
said  something  we  could  n't  understand  and  then 
a  convulsion  seemed  to  take  him.  He  shook  all  over 
and  closed  his  eyes,  and  the  doctor  jumped  up  and 
took  hold  of  my  lady.  He  held  her  for  a  moment 
harder  than  I  've  ever  seen  a  gentleman  hold  a  lady. 
The  Marquis  was  stone  dead  —  the  sight  of  her  had 
done  for  him.  This  time  there  were  those  there  who 
knew." 

Newman  felt  as  if  he  had  been  reading  by  starlight 
the  report  of  highly  important  evidence  in  a  great 

456 


THE  AMERICAN 

murder  case.  "And  the  paper  —  the  paper!"  he  said 
from  a  dry  throat.  "What  was  written  on  it  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  sir,"  Mrs.  Bread  replied.  "I 
could  n't  read  it.  It  was  French." 

"  But  could  no  one  else  read  it  ?" 

"I  never  asked  a  human  creature." 

"No  one  has  ever  seen  it  ?" 

"If  you  do  you '11  be  the  first." 

Newman  seized  his  companion's  hand  in  both  his 
own  and  pressed  it  almost  with  passion.  "I  thank 
you  as  I've  never  thanked  any  one  for  anything.  I 
want  to  be  the  first;  I  want  it  to  be  mine  as  this 
closed  fist  is  mine.  You're  the  wisest  old  woman  in 
Europe.  And  what  did  you  do  with  the  blest  thing  ?" 
Her  information  had  made  him  feel  extraordinarily 
strong.  "For  God's  sake,  let  me  have  it!" 

Mrs.  Bread  got  up  with  a  certain  majesty.  "It's 
not  so  easy  as  that,  sir.  When  you  want  great  things 
you  must  wait  for  great  things." 

"But  waiting's  horrible,  you  know,"  he  candidly 
smiled. 

"I'm  sure  I've  waited;  I've  waited  these  many 
years,"  she  quavered. 

"That's  very  true.  You  have  waited  for  me.  I 
won't  forget  it.  And  yet  how  comes  it  you  did  n't  do 
as  M.  de  Bellegarde  said  —  show  the  right  people 
what  you  had  got?" 

"To  whom  should  I  show  it  and  who  were  the 
right  people?"  she  asked  with  high  lucidity.  "It 
was  n't  easy  to  know,  and  many's  the  night  I  have 
lain  awake  thinking  of  it.  Six  months  afterwards, 
when  they  married  Mademoiselle  to  the  last  person 

457 


THE  AMERICAN 

they  ought  to,  I  was  very  near  bringing  it  out.  I 
thought  it  my  duty  to  do  something  with  such  a  proof 
of  what  had  happened,  and  yet  I  was  terribly  afraid. 
I  did  n't  know  what  the  Marquis  had  put  there,  nor 
how  bad  it  might  be,  and  there  was  no  one  I  could 
trust  enough  to  ask.  And  it  seemed  to  me  a  cruel 
kindness  to  the  person  in  the  world  I  cared  most  for, 
letting  her  know  her  father  had  written  her  mother 
down  so  shamefully;  for  that's  what  he  did,  I  sup- 
pose. I  thought  she  would  rather  suffer  from  her 
husband  than  suffer  from  them.  It  was  for  her  and 
for  my  dear  Mr.  Valentin  I  kept  quiet.  Quiet  I  call 
it,  yet  it  was  a  queer  enough  quietness.  It  worried  me 
and  changed  me  altogether.  But  for  others  I  held 
my  tongue,  and  no  one,  to  this  hour,  knows  what  had 
passed  there  between  my  poor  prostrate  master  and 
his  wife." 

"But  evidently  there  were  suspicions,"  Newman 
urged.  "Where  did  Count  Valentin  get  his  ideas  ?" 

"  From  our  little  local  man  —  who  has  yet  never 
been  in  the  house,  as  you  may  imagine,  since.  He 
was  very  ill-satisfied  and  he  did  n't  care  who  knew 
it.  He  had  a  very  good  opinion  of  his  own  sharpness, 
as  Frenchmen  mostly  have,  and  coming  to  the  house, 
as  he  did,  day  after  day,  he  had  more  ideas  —  as 
a  consequence  —  than  he  had  had,  before,  any  call 
to  put  about.  And  indeed  the  way  the  poor  Mar- 
quis went  off  as  soon  as  his  eyes  fell  on  my  lady  was 
a  most  shocking  sight  for  any  kind  person.  The  great 
nran  from  Paris  may  have  known,  after  he  had  taken 
tl  ings  in,  what  to  think,  but  he  also  knew  what  not 
t<  say,  and  he  hushed  it  up.  But  for  all  he  could  do 

458 


THE  AMERICAN 

ihe  Vicomte  and  Mademoiselle  heard  something; 
they  knew  their  father's  death  was  somehow  against 
nature.  Of  course  they  could  n't  accuse  their  mother, 
and,  as  I  tell  you,  I  was  as  dumb  as  that  stone.  Mr. 
Valentin  used  to. look  at  me  sometimes,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  to  shine  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  some  ques- 
tion he  could  ask  me.  I  was  dreadfully  afraid  he 
would  speak,  and  always  looked  away  and  went  about 
my  business.  If  I  were  to  tell  him  I  was  sure  he 
would  hate  me  afterwards,  which  was  what  I  could 
never  have  borne.  Once  I  went  up  to  him  and  took 
a  great  liberty;  I  kissed  him  as  I  had  kissed  him 
when  he  was  a  child.  'You  ought  n't  to  look  so  sad, 
sir,'  I  said;  *  believe  your  poor  decent  old  Bread. 
Such  a  gallant,  handsome  young  man  can  have 
nothing  to  be  sad  about.'  And  I  think  he  under- 
stood me;  he  understood  I  \vac  begging  off  and  he 
made  up  his  mind  in  his  own  way.  He  went  about 
with  his  unasked  question  in  his  mind,  as  I  did  with 
my  untold  tale;  we  were  both  afraid  of  bringing  dis- 
grace on  a  great  house.  And  it  was  the  same  with  my 
dear  young  lady.  She  did  n't  know  what  had  hap- 
pened; she  would  n't  hear  of  knowing.  The  Mai* 
quise  and  Mr.  Urbain  asked  me  no  questions,  because 
they  had  no  reason.  I  was  as  still  as  a  stopped  clock. 
When  I  was  younger  her  ladyship  thought  me  false, 
and  now  she  thought  me  bete,  as  they  say.  How 
should  I  have  any  ideas  ?" 

Newman  turned  it  all  gravely  over.  "  But  you  say 
that  doctor  made  a  talk.  Did  no  one  take  it  up  ?" 

" I  don't  know  how  far  they  went.  They're  always 
talking  scandal  in  these  foreign  countries  —  you  may 

459 


THE  AMERICAN 

have  noticed  —  and  they  must  have  had  their  stories 
about  my  lady.  But  after  all  what  could  they  say  ? 
The  Marquis  had  been  ill  and  the  Marquis  had  died; 
he  had  as  good  a  right  to  die  as  any  one.  The  doctor 
could  n't  say  he  had  n't  come  honestly  by  what  he 
suffered.  The  next  year  he  left  the  place  and  bought 
a  practice  at  Bordeaux,  and  if  there  had  been  ugly 
tales  the  worst  of  them  were  among  ugly  people. 
There  could  n't  have  been  any  very  bad  ones  that 
those  who  were  respectable  believed.  My  lady  her- 
self is  so  very  respectable." 

Newman,  at  this  last  affirmation,  broke  into  a  re- 
sounding laugh.  Mrs.  Bread  had  begun  to  move 
away  from  the  spot  where  they  were  sitting,  and  he 
helped  her  through  the  aperture  in  the  wall  and  along 
the  homeward  path.  "Yes,  my  lady's  respectabil- 
ity's a  treasure;  I  shall  have  a  great  deal  of  use  for 
my  lady's  respectability."  They  reached  the  empty 
space  in  front  of  the  church,  where  they  stopped 
a  moment,  looking  at  each  other  with  something  of 
closer  fellowship,  like  a  pair  of  sociable  conspirators. 
"But  what  was  it,"  Newman  insisted,  "what  was  it 
she  did  to  the  miserable  man  ?  She  did  n't  stab  him 
or  throttle  him  or  poison  him." 

"I  don't  know,  sir.     No  one  saw  it." 

"Unless  it  was  Mr.  Urbain,"  he  thoughtfully 
suggested.  "You  say  he  was  walking  up  and  down 
outside  the  room.  Perhaps  he  looked  through  the 
keyhole.  But  no;  I  think  that  with  his  mother  he'd 
take  it  on  trust." 

"You  may  be  sure  I've  often  thought  of  it,"  Mrs. 
Bread  almost  cheerfully  returned.  "I'm  sure  she 

460 


THE  AMERICAN 

did  n't  touch  him  with  her  hands.  I  saw  nothing  on 
him  anywhere.  I  believe  it  was  in  this  way.  He  had 
a  fit  of  his  great  pain,  and  he  asked  her  for  his  medi- 
cine. Instead  of  giving  it  to  him  she  went  and  poured 
it  away,  before  his  eyes,  not  speaking,  only  looking  at 
him,  so  that  he  might  have  the  scare  and  the  shock 
and  the  horror  of  it.  Then  he  saw  what  she  meant 
and,  weak  and  helpless,  took  fright,  was  terrified. 
'You  want  to  kill  me/  he  must  have  said  —  do  you 
see?  'Yes,  M.  le  Marquis,  I  want  to  kill  you/  says 
my  lady,  and  sits  down  and  keeps  her  dreadful  eyes 
on  him.  You  know  my  lady's  eyes,  I  think,  sir;  it 
was  with  that  look  of  hers  she  killed  him;  it  was  with 
the  terrible  strong  will  and  all  the  cruelty  she  put  into 
it.  It  was  as  if  she  had  pushed  him  out  of  her  boat, 
frvered  and  sick,  into  the  cold  sea,  and  remained 
there  to  push  him  again  should  he  try  to  scram- 
ble back;  making  him  feel  he  was  lost,  by  her 
intention,  and  watching  him  awfully  sink  and 
drown.  It  was  enough  indeed  to  take  the  heart 
out  of  him,  and  that,  in  his  state,  was  enough  for 
a  death-stroke." 

Newman  rendered  this  vivid  image,  which  in  truth 
did  great  honour  to  the  old  woman's  haunted  sensi- 
bility, the  tribute  of  a  comprehensive  gasp.  "Well, 
you  've  got  right  hold  of  it  —  you  make  me  see  it  and 
hate  it  and  want  to  go  for  it.  But  I've  got  to  keep 
tight  hold  of  you  too,  you  know." 

They  had  begun  to  descend  the  hill,  and  she  said 
nothing  till  they  reached  the  foot.  He  moved  beside 
her  as  on  air,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  head 
thrown  back  while  he  gazed  at  the  stars:  he  seemed 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  himself  to  be  riding  his  vengeance  along  the  Milky 
Way.  "So  you're  serious  about  that?"  she  sighed. 

"  About  your  living  with  me  ?  Why,  you  don't 
suppose  I've  turned  you  inside  out  this  way  not  to 
want  to  get  you  into  shape  again.  You're  in  no  kind 
of  shape  for  these  people  now  —  even  if  they  were  in 
any  for  you;  after  your  seeing  what  they've  done  to 
me  —  and  to  her.  You  just  give  me  the  thing  I'm 
after  and  then  you  move  out." 

"  I  never  thought  I  should  have  lived  to  take  a  new 
place  —  unless,"  Mrs.  Bread  made  moan,  "I  should 
have  gone  some  day  to  Mr.  Valentin  or,  in  her  own 
establishment,  to  my  young  lady." 

"Come  to  me  and  you'll  come  to  her  establishment 
yet,  I  guess  —  you'll  come  at  least  to  where  both  those 
names  will  be  cherished  and  sacred." 

She  considered  a  little  and  then  replied:  "Oh,  I 
shall  like  to  pronounce  them  to  you,  sir!  And  if 
you're  going  to  pull  the  house  down,"  she  added, 
"I  had  surely  better  be  clear  of  it." 

"Ah,"  said  Newman  almost  with  the  gaiety  of 
a  dazzle  of  alternatives,  "it  won't  be  quite  my  idea 
to  appeal  —  if  that's  what  you  mean  —  to  the  police. 
The  meanest  and  the  damnedest  things  are  always 
beyond  their  ken  and  out  of  their  hands.  Which  has 
the  merit  in  this  case,  however,  that  it  leaves  the 
whole  story  in  mine.  And  to  mine,"  he  declared, 
"you've  given  power!" 

"Ah,  you're  bolder  than  I  ever  was!"  she  re- 
signedly sighed;  and  he  felt  himself  now,  to  what- 
ever end,  possessed  of  her.  He  walked  back  with  her 
lo  the  chateau;  the  curfew  —  it  could  n't  have  been 

462 


THE  AMERICAN 

anything  but  the  curfew,  he  was  sure  —  had  tolled 
for  the  weary  serfs  and  villains  (as  he  could  also  quite 
have  believed)  and  the  small  street  of  Fleurieres  was 
unlighted  and  empty.  She  promised  he  should  have 
what  he  was  after,  as  he  had  called  it,  in  half  an 
hour.  Mrs.  Bread  choosing  not  to  go  in  by  the  greal 
gate,  they  passed  round  by  a  winding  lane  to  a  door 
in  the  wall  of  the  park,  of  which  she  had  the  key  and 
which  would  enable  her  to  re-enter  the  house  from 
behind.  Newman  arranged  with  her  that  he  should 
await  outside  the  wall  her  return  with  his  prize. 

She  went  in,  and  his  half-hour  in  the  dusky  lane 
seemed  very  long.  But  he  had  plenty  to  think  about. 
At  last  the  door  in  the  wall  opened  and  Mrs.  Bread 
stood  there  with  one  hand  on  the  latch  and  the  other 
holding  out  a  scrap  of  white  paper  folded  small  and 
dearer  to  his  sight  than  any  love-token  ever  brought 
of  old  by  bribed  duenna  to  lurking  cavalier.  In  a 
moment  he  was  master  of  it  and  it  had  passed  into 
his  waistcoat  pocket.  "Come  and  see  me  in  Paris," 
he  said;  "we're  to  settle  your  future,  you  know;  and 
I'll  translate  poor  M.  de  Bellegarde's  French  to  you." 
Never  had  he  felt  so  grateful  as  at  this  moment  for 
M.  Nioche's  instructions. 

Mrs.  Bread's  eyes  had  followed  the  disappearance 
of  her  treasure,  and  she  gave  a  heavy  sigh.  "Well, 
you've  done  what  you  would  with  me,  sir,  and  I  sup- 
pose you'll  do  it  again.  You  must  take  care  of  me 
now.  You're  a  terribly  positive  gentleman." 

"  Just  now,"  said  Newman,  "I'm  a  terribly  impa- 
tient one!"  And  he  bade  her  good-night  and  walked 
rapidly  back  to  the  inn. ,  He  ordered  his  vehicle  to  be 

463 


THE  AMERICAN 

prepared  for  the  return  to  Poitiers,  and  then  he  shut 
the  door  of  the  common  salle  and  strode  toward  the 
solitary  lamp  on  the  chimney-piece.  He  pulled  out 
the  paper  and  quickly  unfolded  it.  It  was  covered 
with  pencil-marks,  which  at  first,  in  the  feeble  light, 
seemed  indistinct.  But  his  fierce  curiosity  forced 
a  meaning  from  the  tremulous  signs,  the  free  English 
of  which  might  have  been,  without  the  hopelessly 
obscure  date: 

"My  wife  has  tried  to  kill  me  and  has  done  it;  I'm 
horribly,  helplessly  dying.  It's  in  order  to  marry  my 
beloved  daughter  to  M.  de  Cintre  and  then  go  on 
herself  all  the  same.  With  all  my  soul  I  protest  — 
I  forbid  it.  I  'm  not  insane  —  ask  the  doctors,  ask 
Mrs.  B.  It  was  alone  with  me  here  to-night;  she 
attacked  me  and  put  me  to  death.  It's  murder  if 
murder  ever  was.  Ask  the  doctors,  tell  every  one, 
show  every  one  this. 

DE  BELLEGARDE/' 


XXIII 

NEWMAN  returned  to  Paris  the  second  day  after  his 
interview  with  Mrs.  Bread.  The  morrow  he  had 
spent  at  Poitiers,  reading  over  and  over  again  the 
signed  warrant  he  had  lodged  in  his  pocket-book, 
persuading  himself  more  and  more  that  it  had,  as  he 
put  it  to  himself,  a  social  value,  and  thinking  what  he 
would  now  do  and  how  he  would  do  it.  He  would  not 
have  said  that  Poitiers  had  much  to  hold  him,  yet  the 
day  seemed  very  short.  Domiciled  once  more  in  the 
Boulevard  Haussmann  he  walked  over  to  the  Rue  de 
I'Universite  and  enquired  of  Madame  de  Bellegarde's 
portress  whether  the  Marquise  had  come  back.  The 
portress  answered  th?.t  she  had  arrived  with  M.  le 
Marquis  on  the  preceding  day,  and  further  informed 
him  that  should  he  wish  to  see  them  they  were  both 
at  home.  As  she  said  these  words  the  little  white- 
faced  old  woman  who  peered  out  of  the  dusky  gate- 
house of  the  Hotel  de  Bellegarde  gave  a  small  wicked 
smile  —  a  smile  that  seemed  to  Newman  to  mean 
"Go  in  if  you  dare!"  She  was  evidently  versed  in 
the  current  domestic  history;  she  was  placed  where 
she  could  feel  the  pulse  of  the  house.  He  stood  a 
moment  twisting  his  moustache  and  looking  at  her; 
then  he  abruptly  turned  away.  But  this  was  not 
because  he  was  afraid  to  go  in  —  though  he  doubted 
whether,  for  all  his  courage,  he  should  be  able  to 
make  his  way  unchallenged  into  the  presence  of  his 

46S 


THE  AMERICAN 

adversaries.  Confidence,  excessive  confidence  per- 
haps, quite  as  much  as  timidity,  prompted  his  retreat. 
Fie  was  nursing  his  thunderbolt;  he  loved  it;  he  was 
unwilling  to  part  with  it.  He  felt  himself  hold  it  aloft 
in  the  rumbling,  vaguely-flashing  air,  directly  over 
the  heads  of  his  victims,  and  he  fancied  he  could  see 
their  pale  upturned  faces.  Few  specimens  of  the 
human  countenance  had  ever  given  him  such  pleas- 
ure as  these,  lighted  in  the  lurid  fashion  I  have  hinted 
at,  and  he  took  his  ease  while  he  harboured  the  vin- 
dictive vision.  It  must  be  added  too  that  he  was  at 
a  loss  to  see  exactly  how  he  could  arrange  to  witness 
the  operation  of  his  thunder.  To  send  in  his  card  to 
Madame  de  Bellegarde  would  be  a  waste  of  cere- 
mony; she  would  certainly  decline  to  receive  him. 
On  the  other  hand  he  could  n't  force  his  way  into  her 
presence.  He  hated  to  see  himself  reduced  to  the 
blind  satisfaction  of  writing  her  a  letter;  but  he  con- 
soled himself  in  a  measure  with  the  thought  that 
a  letter  might  lead  to  an  interview.  He  went  home 
and,  feeling  rather  :ired  —  nursing  a  vengeance  was, 
he  had  to  confess,  a  fatiguing  process;  it  took  a  good 
deal  out  of  one  —  flung  himself  into  one  of  his  bro- 
caded fauteuils,  stretched  his  legs,  thrust  his  hands 
into  his  pockets  and,  while  he  watched  the  reflected 
sunset  fading  from  the  ornate  house-tops  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  boulevard,  began  mentally  to 
frame,  as  work  for  his  pen,  a  few  effective  remarks 
While  he  was  so  occupied  his  servant  threw  open 
the  door  and  announced  ceremoniously  "Madame 
Brett!" 

He    roused    himself    expectantly    and    in    a    few 


THE  AMERICAN 

moments  recognised  on  his  threshold  the  worthy 
woman  with  whom  he  had  conversed  to  such  good 
purpose  on  the  starlit  hill-top  of  Fleurieres.  Mrs. 
Bread  had  assumed  for  this  visit  the  same  dress  as 
for  her  other  effort,  and  he  was  struck  with  her  fine 
antique  appearance.  His  room  was  still  lampless, 
and  as  her  large  grave  face  gazed  at  him  through  the 
clear  dusk  from  under  the  shadow  of  her  ample 
bonnet  he  felt  the  incongruity  of  her  pretending  to 
any  servile  stamp.  He  greeted  her  with  high  genial- 
ity, and  bade  her  come  in  and  sit  down  and  make  her- 
self comfortable.  There  was  something  that  might 
have  touched  the  springs  both  of  mirth  and  of  melan- 
choly in  the  spirit  of  formal  accommodation  with 
which  she  endeavoured  to  meet  this  new  conception 
of  her  duty.  She  was  not  playing  at  being  fluttered, 
which  would  have  been  simply  ridiculous;  she  was 
doing  her  best  to  carry  herself  as  a  person  so  humble 
that,  for  her,  even  embarrassment  would  have  been 
pretentious;  but  evidently  she  had  never  dreamed  of 
its  being  in  her  horoscope  to  pay  a  visit  at  nightfall 
to  a  friendly  single  gentleman  who  lived  in  theatrical- 
looking  rooms  on  one  of  the  new  boulevards. 

"I  truly  hope  I'm  not  forgetting  my  place,  sir," she 
anxiously  pleaded. 

"Forgetting  your  place?  Why,  you're  remember- 
ing it  as  a  good  woman  remembers  her  promise. 
This  is  your  place,  you  know.  You  're  already  in  my 
service;  your  wages  as  housekeeper  began  a  fortnight 
ago.  I  can  tell  you  my  house  wants  keeping!  Why 
don't  you  take  off  your  bonnet  and  stay  right  now  ?" 

"Take  off  my  bonnet  ?"  —  she  gave  it  her  gravest 
467 


THE  AMERICAN 

consideration.  "Oh  sir,  1  have  n't  my  cap.  And  with 
your  leave,  sir,  I  could  n't  keep  house  in  my  best 
gown." 

"Never  mind  your  best  gown,"  said  Newman 
cheerfully.  "You  shall  have  a  better  gown  than 
that." 

She  stared  solemnly  and  then  stretched  her  hands 
over  her  lustreless  satin  skirt  as  if  the  perilous  side  of 
her  situation  might  be  flushing  into  view.  "Oh  sir, 
I'm  fond  of  my  own  clothes." 

"I  hope  you've  left  those  wicked  people,  at  any 
rate,"  Newman  went  on. 

"Well,  sir,  here  I  am!  That's  all  I  can  tell  you. 
Here  I  sit,  poor  Catherine  Bread.  It's  a  strange 
place  for  me  to  be.  I  don't  know  myself;  I  never 
supposed  I  was  so  bold.  But  indeed,  sir,  I've  gone 
as  far  as  my  own  strength  will  bear  me." 

"Oh,  come,  Mrs.  Bread!"  he  returned  almost 
caressingly;  "don't  make  yourself  uncomfortable. 
Why,  you're  going  to  have  now  the  time  of  your  life.'' 

She  began  to  speak  again  with  a  trembling  voice 
"  I  think  it  would  be  more  respectable  if  I  could       if 
I  could  — !"    But  she  quavered  to  a  pause. 

"If  you  could  give  up  this  sort  of  thing  altogether  t" 
said  Newman  kindly,  trying  to  anticipate  her  mean- 
ing, which  he  supposed  might  be  a  wish  to  retire  from 
service. 

"If  I  could  give  up  everything,  sir!  All  I  should  ask 
is  a  decent  Protestant  burial." 

"Burial!"  he  cried  with  a  burst  of  laughter. 
"Why,  to  bury  you  now  would  be  a  sad  piece  of  ex- 
travagance. It's  only  rascals  who  have  to  be  buried 

468 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  get  respectable.  Honest  folks  like  you  and  me  can 
live  our  time  out  —  and  live  it  together.  Come!  did 
you  bring  your  baggage  ?" 

"My  two  boxes  are  locked  and  corded;  but  I 
have  n't  yet  spoken  to  my  lady." 

"  Speak  to  her  then  and  have  done  with  it.  I  should 
like  to  have  your  chancel"  cried  Newman. 

"I  would  gladly  give  it  you,  sir.  I've  passed  some 
weary  hours  in  my  lady's  dressing-room;  but  this 
will  be  one  of  the  longest.  She'll  tax  me  with  base 
ingratitude." 

"Well," said  Newman, "so  long  as  you  can  tax  her 
with  murder — !" 

"Oh  sir,  I  can't;  not  II"  she  pleaded. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  anything  about  it?  So 
much  the  better.  Leave  it  all  to  me." 

"If  she  calls  me  a  thankless  old  woman,"  Mrs. 
Bread  went  on,  "I  shall  have  nothing  to  say.  But 
it's  better  so,"  she  added  with  supreme  mildness. 
"  She  shall  be  my  lady  to  the  last.  That  will  be  more 
respectable." 

"And  then  you'll  come  to  me  and  I  shall  be  your 
gentleman,"  said  Newman.  "That  will  be  more  re- 
spectable still!" 

She  rose  with  lowered  eyes  and  stood  a  moment; 
then,  looking  up,  she  rested  her  gaze  upon  New- 
man's face.  The  disordered  proprieties  were  some- 
how settling  to  rest.  She  looked  at  her  friend  so  long 
and  so  fixedly,  with  such  a  dull  intense  devoted  ness, 
that  he  himself  might  have  had  a  pretext  for  embar- 
rassment. At  last  she  said  gently:  "You've  not  yom 
natural  appearance,  sir." 

469 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Why,  Mrs.  Bread,"  he  answered,  "I've  not  my 
natural  balance.  If  you  mean  I  don't  look  sunny 
I  guess  I  look  as  I  feel.  To  be  very  indifferent  and 
very  fierce,  very  dull  and  very  violent,  very  sick  and 
very  fine,  all  at  once  —  well,  it  rather  mixes  one  up." 

Mrs.  Bread  gave  r  noiseless  sigh.  "I  can  tell  you 
something  that  will  make  you  feel  queerer  still,  if  you 
want  to  feel  all  one  way.  About  the  poor  Countess." 

"What  can  you  tell  me  ?"  Newman  quickly  asked. 
"Not  that  you've  seen  her  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No  indeed,  sir,  nor  ever 
shall.  That's  the  dead  weight  of  it.  Nor  my  lady. 
Nor  M.  de  Bellegarde." 

"You  mean  she's  kept  so  close  ?" 

"The  closest  they  keep  any." 

These  words  for  an  instant  seemed  to  check  the 
beating  of  his  heart.  Leaning  back  in  his  chair  he 
felt  sick.  "They've  tried  to  see  her  and  she  would  n't 
—  she  couldn't?" 

"She  refused  — for  ever!  I  had  it  from  my  lady's 
own  maid,"  said  Mrs.  Bread,  "who  had  it  from  my 
lady.  To  speak  of  it  to  such  a  person  my  lady  must 
have  felt  the  shock.  The  Countess  declines  to  receive 
them  now,  and  now's  her  only  chance.  A  short  while 
hence  she'll  have  no  choice." 

"You  mean  the  other  women  —  the  mothers,  the 
daughters,  the  sisters;  what  is  it  they  call  them  ?  — 
won't  let  her?" 

"It's  what  they  call  the  rule  of  the  house  —  or 
I  believe  of  the  order.  There's  no  rule  so  strict  as 
that  of  the  Carmelites.  The  bad  women  in  the  re- 
formatories are  fine  ladies  to  them.  They  wear  old 

470 


THE  AMERICAN 

brown  cloaks  —  so  the  femme  de  chambre  told  me  — 
that  you  would  n't  use  for  a  horse-blanket.  And  the 
poor  Countess  was  so  fond  of  soft-feeling  dresses;  she 
would  never  have  anything  stiff!  They  sleep  on  the 
ground/'  Mrs.  Bread  went  on;  "they're  no  better, 
no  better"  —  and  she  hesitated  for  a  comparison  — • 
"they're  no  better  than  tinkers'  wives.  They  give  up 
everything,  down  to  the  very  name  their  poor  old 
nurses  called  them  by.  They  give  up  father  and 
mother,  brother  and  sister  —  to  say  nothing  of  othei 
persons,"  Mrs.  Bread  delicately  added.  "They  wear 
a  shroud  under  their  brown  cloaks  and  a  rope  round 
their  waists,  and  they  get  up  on  winter  nights  and 
go  off  into  cold  places  to  pray  to  the  Virgin  Mary. 
I  hope  it  does  her  at  least  good!" 

Newman's  visitor,  dwelling  on  these  terrible  facts, 
sat  dry-eyed  and  pale,  her  hands  convulsive  but  con- 
fined to  her  satin  lap.  He  gave  a  melancholy  groan 
and  fell  forward,  burying  his  face  and  his  pain.  There 
was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the  ticking  of  the 
great  gilded  clock  on  the  chimney-piece.  "Where  is 
the  accursed  place — where  is  the  convent  ?"  he  asked 
at  last,  looking  up. 

"There  are  two  houses,"  said  Mrs.  Bread.  "I 
found  out;  I  thought  you'd  like  to  know  —  though 
it's  cold  comfort,  I  think.  One's  in  the  Avenue  de 
Messine;  they've  learned  the  Countess  is  there.  The 
other's  in  the  Rue  d'Enfer.  That's  a  terrible  name; 
I  suppose  you  know  what  it  means." 

He  got  up  and  walked  away  to  the  end  of  his  long 
room.  When  he  came  back  Mrs.  Bread  had  risen 
and  stood  by  the  fire,  with  folded  hands.  "Tell  me 

471 


THE  AMERICAN 

this.  Can  I  get  near  her  —  even  if  I  don't  see  hei  ? 
Can  I  look  through  a  grating,  or  some  such  thing,  at 
the  place  where  she  is  ?" 

It  is  said  that  all  women  love  a  lover,  and  Mrs. 
Bread's  sense  of  the  pre-established  harmony  which 
kept  servants  in  their  "place,"  even  as  planets  in  their 
orbits  (not  that  she  had  ever  consciously  likened  her- 
self to  a  planet),  barely  availed  to  temper  the  mater- 
nal melancholy  with  which  she  leaned  her  head  on 
one  side  and  gazed  at  her  new  employer.  She  prob- 
ably felt  for  the  moment  as  if,  forty  years  before,  she 
had  held  him  also  in  her  arms.  "That  would  n't  help 
you,  sir.  It  would  only  make  her  seem  further  away." 

"I  want  to  go  there,  at  all  events,"  he  returned. 
"The  Avenue  de  Messine,  you  say?  And  what  is  it 
they  call  themselves  ?" 

"Carmelites  —  whatever  it  means!"  said  Mrs. 
Bread. 

"I  shall  remember  that." 

She  hesitated  a  moment  and  then:  "It's  my  duty 
to  tell  you  this  —  that  the  convent  has  a  chapel  and 
that  respectable  persons  are  admitted  on  Sunday  to 
the  mass.  You  don't  see  the  poor  creatures  in  their 
prison  or  their  tomb,  but  I  'm  told  you  can  heai  them 
sing.  It's  a  wonder  they  have  any  heart  for  singing! 
Some  Sunday  I  shall  make  bold  to  go.  It  seems  to  me 
I  should  know  her  voice  in  fifty." 

Newman  thanked  her,  while  he  held  her  hand,  with 
a  stare  through  which  he,  for  a  good  reason,  failed  to 
see  her.  "  If  any  one  can  get  in  I  will."  A  moment 
later  she  proposed  deferentially  to  retire,  but  he 
checked  her,  pressing  on  her  grasp  a  lighted  candle. 

472 


THE  AMERICAN 

"There  are  half  a  dozen  rooms  there  I  don't  use;" 
and  he  pointed  through  an  open  door.  "Go  and  look 
at  them  and  take  your  choice.  You  can  live  in  the 
one  you  like  best."  From  this  bewildering  privilege 
she  at  first  recoiled;  but  finally,  yielding  to  her  friend's 
almost  fraternal  pat  of  reassurance,  she  wandered  off 
into  the  dusk  with  her  tremulous  taper.  She  remained 
absent  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  duiing  which  Newman 
paced  up  and  down,  stopped  occasionally  to  look  out 
of  the  window  at  the  lights  on  the  boulevard,  and  then 
resumed  his  walk.  Mrs.  Bread's  interest  in  her  oppor- 
tunity apparently  deepened  as  she  proceeded;  but  at 
last  she  reappeared  and  deposited  her  candlestick  on 
the  chimney-piece. 

"Well,  have  you  picked  one  out  ?" 

"A  room,  sir  ?  They're  all  too  fine  for  a  dingy  old 
body  like  me.  There  is  n't  one  that  has  n't  a  bit  of 
gilding." 

"It's  only  some  shocking  sham,  Mrs.  Bread,"  he 
answered.  "If  you  stay  there  a  while  it  will  all  peel 
off  of  itself."  And  he  gave  a  dismal  smile. 

"Oh  sir,  there  are  things  enough  peeling  off 
already!"  she  said  with  a  responsible  head-shake. 
"Since  I  was  there  I  thought  I'd  look  about  me. 
I  don't  believe  you  know,  sir.  The  corners  are  most 
dreadful.  You  do  want  a  housekeeper,  that  you  do; 
you  want  a  tidy  Englishwoman  that  is  n't  above 
taking  hold  of  a  broom." 

Newman  assured  her  that  he  suspected,  if  he  had 
not  measured,  his  domestic  abuses,  and  that  to  reform 
them  was  a  mission  worthy  of  her  powers.  She  held 
ier  candlestick  aloft  again  and  looked  round  the 

473 


THE  AMERICAN 

salon  with  compassionate  glances;  then  she  intimated 
that  she  accepted  the  mission  and  that  its  sacred 
character  would  sustain  her  in  her  rupture  with  her 
old  dread  mistress.  On  this  she  curtsied  herself  away. 
She  came  back  the  next  day  with  her  worldly  goods, 
and  her  friend,  going  into  his  drawing-room,  found 
her  on  her  aged  knees  before  a  divan,  sewing  up  a 
piece  of  detached  fringe.  He  questioned  her  as  to  her 
leave-taking  with  her  late  mistress,  and  she  said  it 
had  proved  easier  than  she  feared.  "I  was  perfectly 
civil,  sir,  but  the  Lord  helped  me  to  remember  that 
a  good  woman  has  no  call  to  tremble  before  a  bad 


one." 


"  You  must  have  been  too  lovely,"  Newman  frankly 
observed.  **  But  does  she  know  you've  come  to  me  ?" 

"She  asked  me  where  I  was  going,  and  1  men- 
tioned your  name/'  Mrs.  Bread  returned. 

"What  did  she  say  to  that?" 

"She  looked  at  me  very  hard,  she  turned  very  red. 
Then  she  bade  me  leave  her.  I  was  all  ready  to  go, 
and  I  had  got  the  coachman,  who's  an  Englishman, 
thank  goodness,  to  bring  down  my  poor  boxes  and 
to  fetch  me  a  cab.  But  when  I  went  down  myself  to 
those  terrible  great  gates  I  found  them  closed.  My 
lady  had  sent  orders  to  the  porter  not  to  let  me  pass, 
and  by  the  same  orders  the  porter's  wife,  a  dreadful 
sly  old  body,  had  gone  out  in  a  cab  to  fetch  home 
M.  de  Bellegarde  from  his  club." 

Newman's  face  lighted  almost  with  the  candour  of 
childhood.  "She  is  scared!  she  is  scared!" 

"I  was  frightened  too,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bread,  "but 
i  thank  the  powers  I  felt  my  temper  rise.  I  took  it 

474 


THE  AMERICAN 

very  high  with  the  porter,  and  asked  him  by  what 
right  he  used  violence  to  an  honourable  Anglaise  who 
had  lived  in  the  house  for  thirty  years  before  he  was 
heard  of.  Oh  sir,  I  was  very  grand  —  I  brought 
the  man  down.  He  drew  his  bolts  and  let  me  out, 
and  I  promised  the  cabman  something  handsome  if 
he  would  drive  fast.  But  he  was  terribly  slow;  it 
seemed  as  if  we  should  never  reach  your  blest  door. 
I'm  all  of  a  tremble  still;  it  took  me  five  minutes,  just 
now,  to  thread  my  needle." 

Newman  told  her,  in  munificent  mirth,  that  if  she 
:hose  she  might  have  a  little  maid  on  purpose  to 
thread  her  needles;  and  he  went  away  nursing  this 
sketch  of  the  scene  in  the  Rue  de  I'Universite  and 
rejoicing  in  the  belief  that  he  had  produced  there 
what  he  might  call  the  impression  of  his  life. 

He  had  not  shown  Mrs.  Tristram  the  document  he 
carried  in  his  pocket-book,  but  since  his  return  to 
Paris  he  had  seen  her  several  times,  and  she  had  not 
disguised  from  him  that  he  struck  her  as  in  a  strange 
way  —  an  even  stranger  way  than  his  sad  situation 
made  natural.  Had  his  disappointment  gone  to  his 
head  ?  He  looked  like  a  man  who  was  spoiling  tor 
some  sickness,  yet  she  had  never  seen  him  more  rest- 
less and  active.  Some  days  he  would  hang  his  head 
and  fold  his  brow  and  set  his  teeth,  appear  to  wish  to 
give  out  that  he  should  never  smile  again;  on  others 
he  would  indulge  in  laughter  that  was  almost  rude 
and  make  jokes  that  were  bad  even  for  him.  If  he 
was  trying  to  carry  of}'  his  humiliation  he  went  at  such 
times  really  too  far.  She  begged  him  of  all  things  not 
to  be  '"  strange."  Feeling  in  a  measure  answerable 

475 


THE  AMERICAN 

for  the  adventure  that  had  turned  out  so  ill  for  him, 
she  could  put  up  with  anything  but  his  strangeness. 
He  might  be  tragic  if  he  would,  or  he  might  be  ter- 
ribly touching  and  pierce  her  to  the  heart  with  silent 
sorrow;  he  might  be  violent  and  summon  her  to  say 
why  she  had  ever  dared  to  meddle  with  his  destiny: 
to  this  she  would  submit  —  for  this  she  would  make 
allowances.  Only,  if  he  loved  her,  let  him  not  be 
incoherent.  That  would  quite  break  down  her  nerves. 
It  was  like  people  talking  in  their  sleep;  they  always 
awfully  frightened  her.  And  Mrs.  Tristram  inti- 
mated that,  taking  very  high  ground  as  regards  the 
moral  obligation  which  events  had  laid  upon  her,  she 
proposed  not  to  rest  quiet  till  she  should  have  con- 
fronted him  with  the  least  inadequate  substitute  for 
his  loss  that  the  two  hemispheres  contained. 

"Ah,"  he  replied  to  this,  "I  think  we're  square 
now  and  we  had  better  not  open  a  new  account!  You 
may  bury  me  some  day,  but  you  shall  of  a  certainty 
never  marry  me.  It's  too  rough,  you  see  —  it's 
worse  than  a  free  fight  in  Arkansaw.  I  hope,  at  any 
rate,"  he  added,  "that  there's  nothing  incoherent  in 
this  —  that  I  want  to  go  next  Sunday  to  the  Carmelite 
chapel  in  the  Avenue  de  Messine.  You  know  one  of 
the  Catholic  clergymen  —  an  abbe,  is  that  it  ?  — 
whom  I've  seen  here  with  you,  I  think,  on  some 
errand  for  his  poor;  that  motherly  old  gentleman  with 
the  big  waistband.  Please  ask  him  if  I  need  a  special 
leave  to  go  in,  and  if  1  do,  beg  him  to  obtain  it  tor 


me." 


Mrs.  Tristram  gave  expression  to  the  liveliest  joy. 
I'm  so  glad  you've  asked  me  to  do  something!   You 

476 


THE  AMERICAN 

shall  get  into  the  chapel  if  the  abbe  is  disfrocked  for 
his  share  in  it." 

And  two  days  afterwards  she  told  him  it  was  all 
arranged;  the  abbe  was  enchanted  to  serve  him, 
and  if  he  would  present  himself  civilly  at  the  con- 
vent gate  there  would  be  no  obstacle. 


XXIV 

SUNDAY  was  as  yet  two  days  off;  but  meanwhile  to 
beguile  his  impatience,  Newman  took  his  way  to  the 
Avenue  de  Messine  and  got  what  comfort  he  could 
in  staring  at  the  blank  outer  wall  of  Madame  de 
Cintre's  present  abode.  The  street  in  question,  as 
some  travellers  will  remember,  adjoins  the  Pare  Mon- 
ceau,  which  is  one  of  the  finest  quarters  of  recon- 
structed Paris.  It  has  an  air  of  modern  opulence 
and  convenience  that  sounds  a  false  note  for  any 
temple  of  sacrifice,  and  the  impression  made  on  his 
gloomily-irritated  gaze  by  the  fresh-looking,  window- 
less  expanse  behind  which  the  woman  he  loved  was 
perhaps  even  then  pledging  herself  to  pass  the  rest  of 
her  days  was  less  exasperating  than  he  had  feared. 
The  place  suggested  a  convent  with  the  modern  im- 
provements —  an  asylum  in  which  privacy,  though 
unbroken,  might  be  not  quite  identical  with  privation, 
and  meditation,  though  monotonous,  might  be  suffi- 
ciently placid.  And  yet  he  knew  the  case  was  other; 
only  at  present  it  was  not  a  reality  to  him.  It  was  too 
strange  and  too  mocking  to  be  real;  it  was  like  a  page 
torn  out  of  some  superannuated  unreadable  book, 
with  no  context  in  his  own  experience. 

On  Sunday  morning,  at  the  hour  Mrs.  Tristram 
had  indicated,  he  rang  at  the  gate  in  the  blank  wall. 
It  instantly  opened  and  admitted  him  into  a  clean, 
cold-looking  court,  beyond  which  a  dull,  plain  edifice 


THE  AMERICAN 

met  his  view  in  the  manner  of  some  blank  stiff  party 
to  a  formal  introduction.  A  robust,  lay  sister  with 
a  cheerful  complexion  emerged  from  a  porter's  lodge 
and,  on  his  stating  his  errand,  pointed  to  the  open 
door  of  the  chapel,  an  edifice  which  occupied  the 
right  side  of  the  court  and  was  preceded  by  a  high 
3ight  of  steps.  Newman  ascended  the  steps  and 
immediately  entered  the  open  door.  Service  had  not 
yet  begun;  the  interior  was  dimly  lighted  and  it  was 
some  moments  before  he  could  distinguish  features 
Then  he  saw  the  scene  divided  by  a  large  close  iron 
screen  into  two  unequal  parts.  The  altar  was  on  the 
hither  side  of  the  screen,  and  between  it  and  the 
entrance  were  disposed  several  benches  and  chairs. 
Three  or  four  of  these  were  occupied  by  vague, 
motionless  figures  —  figures  he  presently  perceived  to 
be  women  deeply  absorbed  in  their  devotion.  The 
place  seemed  to  Newman  very  cold;  the  smell  of  the 
incense  itself  was  cold.  Mixed  with  this  impression 
was  a  twinkle  of  tapers  and  here  and  there  a  glow  of 
coloured  glass.  He  seated  himself;  the  praying 
women  kept  still,  kept  their  backs  turned.  He  saw 
they  were  visitors  like  himself,  and  he  would  have 
liked  to  see  their  faces;  for  he  believed  that  they  were 
the  mourning  mothers  and  sisters  of  other  women 
who  had  had  the  same  pitiless  courage  as  the  person  in 
whom  he  was  interested.  But  they  were  better  off 
than  he,  for  they  at  least  shared  the  faith  to  which 
the  others  had  sacrificed  themselves.  Three  or  four 
persons  came  in,  two  of  them  gentlemen  important 
and  mature.  Every  one  was  very  quiet,  with  a  per- 
verse effect  of  studied  submission.  He  fastened  his 

479 


THE  AMERICA^ 

eyes  on  the  screen  behind  the  altar.  That  was  the 
convent,  the  real  convent,  the  place  where  she  was. 
But  he  could  see  nothing;  no  light  came  through  the 
crevices.  He  got  up  and  approached  the  partition 
very  gently,  trying  to  look  through.  Behind  it  was 
darkness,  with  no  sign  even  of  despair.  He  went 
back  to  his  place,  and  after  that  a  priest  and  two 
altar-boys  came  in  and  began  to  say  mass. 

Newman  watched  their  genuflexions  and  gyrations 
with  a  grim,  still  enmity;  they  seemed  prompters  and 
abettors  of  the  wrong  he  had  suffered;  they  were 
mouthing  and  droning  out  their  triumph.  The 
priest's  long,  dismal  intonings  acted  upon  his  nerves 
and  deepened  his  wrath;  there  was  something  defiant 
in  his  unintelligible  drawl  —  as  if  it  had  been  meant 
for  his  very  own  swindled  self.  Suddenly  there  arose 
from  the  depths  of  the  chapel,  from  behind  the  inex- 
orable grating,  a  sound  that  drew  his  attention  from 
the  altar  —  the  sound  of  a  strange,  lugubrious  chant 
uttered  by  women's  voices.  It  began  softly,  but  it 
presently  grew  louder,  and  as  it  increased  it  became 
more  of  a  wail  and  a  dirge.  It  was  the  chant  of  the 
Carmelite  nuns,  their  only  human  utterance.  It  was 
their  dirge  over  their  buried  affections  and  over  the 
vanity  of  earthly  desires.  At  first  he  was  bewildered 
almost  stunned,  by  the  monstrous  manifestation, 
then,  as  he  comprehended  its  meaning,  he  listened 
intently  and  his  heart  began  to  throb.  He  listened  for 
Madame  de  Cintre's  voice,  and  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  tuneless  harmony  he  imagined  he  made  it  out. 
We  are  obliged  to  believe  that  he  was  wrong,  since 
she  had  obviously  not  yet  had  time  to  become  a  mem- 

4.80 


THE  AMERICAN 

her  of  the  invisible  sisterhood;  the  chant,  at  any  rate, 
kept  on,  mechanical  and  monotonous,  with  dismal 
repetitions  and  despairing  cadences.  It  was  hideous, 
it  was  horrible;  as  it  continued  he  felt  he  needed  all 
his  self-control.  He  was  growing  more  agitated,  the 
tears  were  hot  in  his  eyes.  At  last,  as  in  its  full  force 
the  thought  came  over  him  that  this  confused,  imper- 
sonal wail  was  all  that  he  or  the  world  she  had  de- 
serted were  ever  again  to  hear  of  the  breath  of  those 
lips  of  which  his  own  held  still  the  pressure,  he  knew 
he  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  rose  abruptly  and 
made  his  way  out.  On  the  threshold  he  paused,  lis- 
tened again  to  the  dreary  strain,  and  then  hastily 
descended  into  the  court.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  that 
the  good  sister  with  the  high-coloured  cheeks  and  the 
fan-like  frill  to  her  head-dress,  who  had  admitted 
him,  was  in  conference  at  the  gate  with  two  persons 
who  had  just  come  in.  A  second  glance  showed  him 
that  these  visitors  were  Madame  de  Bellegarde  and 
her  son,  and  that  they  were  about  to  avail  themselves 
of  that  method  of  approach  to  their  lost  victim  which 
he  had  found  but  a  mockery  of  consolation.  As  he 
crossed  the  court  the  Marquis  recognised  him;  he 
was  on  the  way  to  the  steps  and  was  supporting  his 
mother.  From  Madame  de  Bellegarde  he  also  re- 
ceived a  look,  and  it  resembled  that  of  Urbain.  Both 
faces  expressed  a  less  guarded  perturbation,  something 
more  akin  to  immediate  dismay,  than  Newman  had 
yet  seen  in  them.  Evidently  he  was  disconcerting, 
and  neither  mother  nor  son  had  quite  due  presence 
of  mind.  Newman  hurried  past  them,  guided  only 
by  the  desire  to  get  out  of  the  convent  walls  and  into 


THE  AMERICAN 

the  street.  The  gate  opened  itself  at  his  approach;  he 
strode  over  the  threshold  and  it  closed  behind  him. 
A  carriage  which  appeared  to  have  been  standing 
there  was  just  turning  away  from  the  pavement.  He 
looked  at  it  for  a  moment  blankly;  then  he  became 
conscious,  through  the  dusky  mist  that  swam  before 
his  eyes,  that  a  lady  seated  in  it  was  bowing  to  him. 
The  vehicle  had  got  into  motion  before  he  recognised 
her;  it  was  an  ancient  landau  with  one  half  the  cover 
lowered.  The  lady's  bow  was  very  expressive  and 
accompanied  with  a  smile;  a  little  girl  was  seated 
beside  her.  He  raised  his  hat,  and  then  the  lady  bade 
the  coachman  stop. 

The  carriage  drew  up  again  and  she  sat  there  and 
beckoned  to  Newman  —  beckoned  with  the  demon- 
strative grace  of  the  Marquise  Urbain.  Newman 
hesitated  a  moment  before  he  obeyed  her  summons; 
during  this  moment  he  had  time  to  curse  his  stupid- 
ity for  letting  the  others  escape  him.  He  had  been 
wondering  how  he  could  get  at  them;  fool  that  he 
was  for  not  stopping  them  then  and  there!  What 
better  place  than  beneath  the  very  prison  walls  to 
which  they  had  consigned  the  promise  of  his  joy  ? 
He  had  been  too  bewildered  publicly  to  fall  on  them, 
but  now  he  felt  ready  to  await  them  at  the  gate. 
Madame  Urbain,  with  a  certain  attractive  petulance, 
made  a  more  emphatic  sign,  and  this  time  he  went 
over  to  the  carriage.  She  leaned  out  and  gave  him 
her  hand,  looking  at  him  kindly  and  smiling.  "Ah, 
monsieur,  you  don't  include  me  in  your  wrath  ?  I  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  you  could  have  prevented 

482 


THE  AMERICAN 

it!"  he  answered  in  a  tone  which  was  not  that  of 
studied  gallantry. 

"What  you  say  is  too  true  for  me  to  resent  the 
small  account  it  makes  of  my  influence.  I  forgive 
you,  at  any  rate,  because  you  look  as  if  you  had  seen 
a  ghost." 

"I  have  seen  a  ghost,"  Newman  darkly  returned. 

"I'm  glad  then  I  did  n't  go  in  with  my  belle-mere 
and  my  husband.  You  must  have  seen  them,  eh  ? 
Was  the  meeting  affectionate  ?  Did  you  hear  the 
chanting?  They  say  it's  like  the  lamentations  of  the 
damned.  I  would  n't  go  in:  one's  certain  to  hear 
that  soon  enough.  Poor  Claire  —  in  a  white  shroud 
and  a  big  brown  cloak!  That's  the  full  dress  of  the 
Carmelites,  you  know.  Well,  she  was  always  fond  of 
long,  loose  things.  But  I  must  n't  speak  of  her  to 
you;  I  must  only  say  I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  that  if 
I  could  have  helped  you  I  would,  and  that  I  think 
every  one  has  behaved  infernally.  I  was  afraid  of  it, 
you  know;  I  felt  it  in  the  air  for  a  fortnight  before 
it  came.  When  I  saw  you,  at  my  mother-in-law's 
ball,  take  it  all  in  such  good  faith  I  felt  as  if  you  were 
dancing  on  your  grave.  But  what  could  I  do  ?  I  wish 
you  all  the  good  I  can  think  of.  You'll  say  that  is  n't 
much!  Yes;  they've  been  abominable;  I'm  not  a  bit 
afraid  to  say  it;  I  assure  you  every  one  thinks  so. 
We're  not  all  like  that.  I'm  sorry  I'm  not  going  to 
see  you  again;  you  know  I  think  you  very  good  com- 
pany. I  'd  prove  it  by  asking  you  to  get  into  the  car- 
riage and  drive  with  me  for  the  quarter  of  an  hour 
that  I  shall  wait  for  my  mother-in-law.  Only  if  we 
were  seen  —  considering  what  has  passed,  and  every 

483 


THE  AMERICAN 

one  knows  you've  been  joue  —  it  might  be  thought 
I  was  going  a  little  too  far,  even  for  me.  But  I  shall 
see  you  sometimes  —  somewhere,  eh?  You  know" 
— this  was  said  in  English  —  "we've  a  plan  for  a  little 


amusement." 


Newman  stood  there  with  his  hand  on  the  carriage 
door,  listening  to  this  consolatory  murmur  with  an  un- 
\ighted  eye.  He  hardly  knew  what  Madame  Urbain 
was  saying;  he  was  only  conscious  she  was  chatter- 
ing ineffectively.  But  suddenly  it  occurred  to  him 
that,  with  her  pretty  professions,  there  was  a  way  of 
making  her  effective;  she  might  help  him  to  get  at  the 
old  woman  and  the  Marquis.  "They're  coming  back 
soon  —  your  companions  ?  You  're  hanging  about  for 
them?" 

"They'll  hear  the  office  out;  there's  nothing  to  keep 
them  longer.  Claire  has  refused  to  see  them." 

"I  want  to  speak  to  them,"  Newman  said;  "and 
you  can  help  me,  you  can  do  me  a  favour.  Delay 
your  return  for  five  minutes  and  give  me  a  chance  a* 
them.  I'll  wait  for  them  here." 

The  young  woman  clasped  her  hands  in  sharp 
deprecation.  "  My  poor  friend,  what  do  you  want  to 
do  to  them  ?  To  beg  them  to  come  back  to  you  ?  It 
will  be  wasted  words.  They'll  never  come  back!" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  them  all  the  same.  Pray  do 
what  I  ask  you.  Stay  away  and  leave  them  to  me  for 
five  minutes.  You  need  n't  be  afraid;  I  shall  not  be 
violent;  I'm  very  quiet." 

"Yes,  you  look  very  quiet!  If  they  had  le  cceur 
tendre  you'd  move  them.  But  don't  count  on  them 
—  you've  had  enough  of  that.  However,  111  do 

484 


THE  AMERICAN 

better  for  you  than  what  you  propose.  The  under- 
standing is  not  that  I  shall  come  back  for  them.  I  'm 
going  into  the  Pare  Monceau  to  give  my  little  girl 
a  walk,  and  my  mother-in-law,  who  comes  so  rarely 
into  this  quarter,  is  to  profit  by  the  same  opportunity 
to  take  the  air.  We're  to  wait  for  her  in  the  park, 
where  my  husband  is  to  join  us  with  her.  Follow  me 
now;  just  within  the  gates  I  shall  get  out  of  my  car- 
riage. Sit  down  on  a  chair  in  some  quiet  corner  and 
I'll  bring  them  near  you.  There's  devotion  for  you! 
Le  reste  vous  r e garde  " 

This  proposal  Newman  eagerly  caught  at;  it 
revived  his  drooping  spirit  and  he  reflected  that 
Madame  Urbain  was  not  quite  the  featherhead  she 
seemed.  He  promised  immediately  to  overtake  her, 
and  the  carriage  drove  away. 

The  Pare  Monceau  is  a  very  pretty  piece  of  land- 
scape-gardening, but  Newman,  passing  into  it,  had 
little  care  for  its  elegant  vegetation,  which  was  full  of 
the  freshness  of  spring.  He  found  the  young  Mar- 
quise promptly,  seated  in  one  of  the  quiet  corners  of 
which  she  had  spoken,  while  before  her  in  the  alley 
her  little  girl,  attended  by  the  footman  and  the  lap- 
dog,  walked  up  and  down  as  if  to  take  a  lesson  in 
deportment.  Newman  seated  himself  by  his  friend, 
who  began  to  chatter  afresh,  apparently  with  the 
design  of  convincing  him  that  —  if  he  would  only  see 
it  —  poor  dear  Claire  did  n't  belong  to  the  most 
pleasing  type  of  woman.  She  was  too  long,  too  lean, 
too  flat,  too  stiff,  too  cold;  her  mouth  was  too  wide 
and  her  nose  too  narrow.  She  had  n't  such  a  thing 
as  a  dimple,  or  even  as  a  pretty  curve  —  or  call  it 

485 


THE  AMERICAN 

really  an  obtuse  angle  —  anywhere.  And  then  she 
was  eccentric,  eccentric  in  cold  blood;  she  was  a  furi- 
ous Anglaise  after  all.  Newman  was  very  impatient; 
he  was  counting  the  minutes  until  his  victims  should 
reappear.  He  sat  silent,  leaning  upon  his  cane,  look- 
ing absently  and  insensibly  at  Madame  Urbain.  At 
last  she  said  she  would  walk  toward  the  gate  of  the 
park  and  meet  her  companions;  but  before  she  went 
she  dropped  her  eyes  and,  after  playing  a  moment 
with  the  lace  of  her  sleeve,  looked  up  again  at  her 
visitor. 

"Do  you  remember  the  promise  you  made  me 
three  weeks  ago?"  And  then  as  Newman,  vainly 
consulting  his  memory,  was  obliged  to  confess  that 
this  vow  had  escaped  it,  she  mentioned  that  he  had 
made  her  at  the  time  a  very  queer  answer  —  an 
answer  at  which,  viewing  it  in  the  light  of  the  sequel, 
she  had  fair  ground  for  taking  offence.  "You  piu- 
mised  to  take  me  to  Bullier's  after  your  marriage. 
After  your  marriage  —  you  made  a  great  point  of 
that.  Three  days  after  that  your  marriage  was 
broken  off.  Do  you  know,  when  I  heard  the  news, 
the  first  thing  I  said  to  myself?  'Ah,  par  exemple, 
now  he  won't  go  with  me  to  Bullier's!'  And  I  really 
began  to  wonder  if  you  had  n't  been  expecting  the 
rupture." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  lady  —  ! "  he  merely  murmured, 
while  he  looked  down  the  path  to  see  if  the  others 
were  n't  coming. 

"I  shall  be  good-natured,"  said  his  friend.  "One 
must  n't  ask  too  much  of  a  gentleman  who's  in  love 
with  a  cloistered  nun.  Besides,  I  can't  go  to  Bui- 

486 


THE  AMERICAN 

lier's  while  we're  in  mourning.  But  I  have  n't  given 
it  up  for  that.  The  partie  is  arranged;  I  have  my 
cavalier  —  Lord  Deepmere,  if  you  please!  He  has 
gone  back  to  his  dear  Dublin;  but  a  few  months 
hence  I'm  to  name  any  evening,  and  he'll  come  over 
from  Ireland  on  purpose.  That's  what  I  call  really 
deling  for  a  woman." 

Shortly  after  this  Madame  Urbain  walked  away 
with  her  little  girl.  Newman  sat  in  his  place;  the 
time  seemed  terribly  long.  He  felt  how  fiercely  his 
quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  chapel  had  raked  over  the 
glowing  coals  of  his  resentment.  His  accessory  kept 
him  waiting,  but  she  proved  as  good  as  her  word. 
Finally  she  reappeared  at  the  end  of  the  path  with 
her  little  girl  and  her  footman;  beside  her  slowly 
walked  her  husband  with  his  mother  on  his  arm. 
They  were  a  long  time  advancing,  during  which  New- 
man sat  unmoved.  Aching  as  he  fairly  did  now  with 
his  passion  —  the  passion  of  his  wrath  at  the  impu- 
dence, on  the  part  of  such  a  pair,  of  an  objection  to 
him  in  the  name  of  clean  hands  —  it.  was  extremely 
characteristic  of  him  that  he  was  able  to  moderate 
his  expression  of  it  very  much  as  he  would  have 
turned  down  a  flaring  gas-jet.  His  native  shrewd- 
ness, coolness,  clearness,  his  lifelong  submission  to 
the  sense  that  words  were  acts  and  acts  were  steps 
in  life,  and  that  in  this  matter  of  taking  steps  curvet- 
ing and  prancing  were  exclusively  reserved  for  quad- 
rupeds and  foreigners  —  all  this  admonished  him 
that  rightful  wrath  had  no  connexion  with  being 
a  fool  and  indulging  in  spectacular  violence.  So  as 
he  rose,  when  the  elder  lady  and  her  son  were  close 

487 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  him,  he  only  felt  very  tall  and  unencumbered  and 
alert.  He  had  been  sitting  beside  some  shrubbery  in 
such  a  way  as  not  to  be  noticeable  at  a  distance;  but 
the  Marquis,  at  hand,  had  quickly  enough  perceived 
him.  The  couple  were  then  for  holding  their  course; 
at  sight  of  which  Newman  stepped  so  straight  in 
front  of  them  that  they  were  obliged  to  pause.  He 
lifted  his  hat  slightly  and  looked  at  them  hard;  they 
were  pale  with  amazement  and  disgust. 

"Pardon  my  stopping  you,"  he  dryly  said;  "but 
I  must  profit  by  the  occasion.  I  've  ten  words  to  say 
to  you.  Will  you  listen  to  them  ?" 

The  Marquis  blinked,  then  turned  to  his  mother. 
"Can  Mr.  Newman  possibly  have  anything  to  say 
that  is  worth  our  listening  to  ?" 

"I  assure  you  I've  something,"  Newman  went  on; 
"besides,  it's  my  duty  to  say  it.  It  concerns  you  ever 
so  closely." 

"Your  duty?  '  said  the  Marquise,  her  small  fine 
mouth  contracting  in  its  odd  way  as  for  a  whistle. 
"That's  your  affair,  not  ours." 

Madame  Urbain  meanwhile  had  seized  her  little 
girl  by  the  hand,  with  a  gesture  of  surprise  and 
impatience  which  struck  Newman,  intent  as  he 
was  on  his  own  words,  with  its  plausible  ex- 
travagance. "If  Mr.  Newman's  going  to  make  a 
scene  in  public,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  shall  take  my 
poor  child  out  of  the  melee.  She's  too  young  to 
see  such  naughtiness!" — and  she  instantly  resumed 
her  walk. 

"You  had  much  better  listen  to  me,"  he  persisted 
with  his  difficult  ease.  "Whether  you  do  or  not  youi 

488 


THE  AMERICAN 

gain  will  be  small;  but  at  least  perhaps  you'll  be  pre- 
pared." 

"If  you  mean  prepared  for  your  preposterous 
threats,"  the  Marquis  replied,  "there's  nothing 
grotesque  from  you,  certainly,  for  which  we're  not 
prepared,  and  of  the  idea  of  which  you  don't  per- 
fectly know  what  we  think." 

"You  think  a  great  deal  more  than  you  yet  admit. 
A  moment,"  Newman  added  in  reply  to  a  sharp 
exclamation  from  Madame  de  Bellegarde.  "I  don't 
at  all  forget  that  we're  in  a  public  place,  and  you  see 
I'm  very  quiet.  I'm  not  going  to  tell  your  secret  to 
the  passers-by;  I  shall  keep  it,  to  begin  with,  for  cer- 
tain picked  listeners.  Any  one  who  observes  us  will 
think  we're  having  a  friendly  chat  and  that  I'm  com- 
plimenting you,  madam,  on  your  venerable  virtues." 

The  Marquis  gave  a  hiss  that  fairly  evoked  for  our 
friend  some  vision  of  a  hunched  back,  an  erect  tail 
and  a  pair  of  shining  evil  eyes.  "  I  demand  of  you  to 
step  out  of  our  path!" 

Newman  instantly  complied  and  his  interlocutors 
proceeded.  But  he  was  still  beside  them  and  was  still 
distinct.  "Half  an  hour  hence  Madame  de  Belle- 
garde  will  regret  that  she  did  n't  learn  exactly  w  bat 
I  mean." 

The  Marquise  had  taken  a  few  steps,  but  at  these 
words  she  pulled  up  again,  as  if  not  to  have  the 
appearance  of  not  facing  even  monstrous  possibil- 
ities —  as  monstrous,  that  is,  as  a  monster  of  rude- 
ness might  make  them.  "You're  like  a  pedlar  with 
something  trumpery  to  sell,"  she  said;  and  she  accom- 
panied it  with  a  strange,  small,  cold  laugh  —  a  de- 

489 


THE  AMERICAN 

monstration  so  inconsequent  that  it  meant  nothing, 
Newman  quickly  felt,  if  it  did  n't  mean  a  " lovely" 
nervousness. 

"Oh  no,  not  to  sell;  I  give  it  to  you  for  nothing." 
And  he  had  never  in  his  life,  no  matter  under  what 
occasion  for  it,  spoken  so  completely  and  so  grate- 
fully to  the  point  as  now.  "You  cruelly  killed  your 
helpless  husband,  you  know;  and  I'm  in  possession 
of  all  the  facts.  That  is  you  did  your  best,  first,  and 
failed;  and  then  succeeded  —  by  which  I  mean  fin- 
ished him  —  at  a  stroke  and  almost  without  trying." 

The  Marquise  closed  her  eyes  and  gave  a  small 
dry  cough  which,  as  a  piece  of  dissimulation  and  of 
self-possession,  seemed  to  her  adversary  consummate. 

"Dear  mother,"  said  Urbain  as  if  she  had  been 
moved  to  hilarity,  "does  this  stuff  amuse  you  so 
much  ?" 

"The  rest  is  more  amusing,"  Newman  went  on. 
"  You  had  better  not  lose  it." 

The  eyes  she  fixed  on  him  might  well  have  been, 
he  recognised,  those  with  which,  according  to  Mrs. 
Bread,  she  had  done  her  husband  to  death;  and  they 
had  somehow  no  connexion  with  the  stifled  shrillness 
of  her  spoken  retort.  "Amusing?  Have  I  killed  some 
one  else?" 

"I  don't  count  your  daughter,"  said  Newman, 
"though  of  course  I  might.  Your  husband  knew 
what  you  were  doing.  I've  a  proof  of  it  the  existence 
of  which  you've  never  suspected."  And  he  turned  to 
the  Marquis,  whose  face  was  beyond  any  he  had  ever 
seen  discomposed,  decomposed  — what  did  they  call 
it  ?  "A  paper  written  by  the  hand,  and  signed  with 

49° 


THE  AMERICAN 

the  name  of  Henri-Urbain  de  Bellegarde.  Written 
and  dated  after  you,  madam,  had  left  him  for  dead, 
and  while  you,  sir,  had  gone  —  not  very  fast  —  for 
the  doctor." 

The  Marquis  turned  to  his  mother;  she  moved 
a  little  at  random,  averting  herself  and  looking 
vaguely  round  her.  But  her  answer  to  his  appeal 
fell,  after  an  instant,  rather  short.  "  I  must  sit  down," 
she  simply  said,  and  went  back  to  the  bench  on  which 
Newman  had  been  posted. 

"Couldn't  you  have  spoken  to  me  alone?"  her 
companion  then  asked,  all  remarkably,  of  their  pur- 
suer, who  wondered  if  it  meant  that  there  was  sud- 
denly, quite  amazingly,  a  basis  for  discussion. 

"Well,  yes,  if  I  could  have  been  sure  of  speaking 
to  your  mother  alone  too,"  Newman  answered. 
"But  I've  had  to  take  you  as  I  could  get  you,  don't 
you  see  ?" 

Madame  de  Bellegarde,  in  a  manner  very  eloquent 
of  what  he  would  have  called  her  "grit,"  her  steel- 
cold  pluck  and  her  instinctive  appeal  to  her  own 
personal  resources,  seated  herself  on  the  bench  with 
her  head  erect  and  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  The 
expression  of  her  face  was  such  that  he  fancied  her  at 
first  inconceivably  smiling,  but  on  his  drawing  nearer 
felt  this  display  to  be  strange  and  convulsive.  He 
saw,  however,  equally,  that  she  was  resisting  her  agi- 
tation with  all  the  rigour  of  her  inflexible  will,  and 
there  was  nothing  like  either  fear  or  submission  in  the 
fine  front  she  presented.  She  had  been  upset,  but 
she  could  intensely  think.  He  felt  the  pang  of  a  con- 
viction that  she  would  get  the  better  of  him  still,  and 

491 


THE  AMERICAN 

he  would  n't  have  been  himself  if  he  could  wholly  fail 
to  be  touched  by  the  sight  of  a  woman  (criminal  or 
other)  in  so  tight  a  place.  She  gave  a  glance  at  her 
son  which  seemed  tantamount  to  an  injunction  to  be 
silent  and  leave  her  to  her  own  devices.  He  stood 
beside  her  with  his  hands  behind  him,  quite  making 
up  in  attitude,  as  our  observer  noted,  for  what  he 
failed  of  in  utterance.  It  was  to  remain  really  a 
burden  on  Newman's  mind  to  the  end,  this  irritat- 
ing, this  perplexing  illustration  he  afforded  of  the 
positive  virtue  and  the  incalculable  force,  even  in  the 
unholy,  of  attitude  "as  such."  "What  paper  is  this 
you  speak  of?"  the  Marquise  asked  as  if  confessing 
to  an  interest  in  any  possible  contribution  to  the 
family  archives. 

"  Exactly  what  I  Ve  told  you.  A  paper  written  by 
your  husband  after  you  had  left  him  that  evening, 
for  dead  —  written  during  the  couple  of  hours  before 
you  returned.  You  see  he  had  the  time;  you 
should  n't  have  stayed  away  so  long.  It  declares  in 
the  most  convincing  way  his  wife's  murderous  in- 


tent." 


"  I  should  like  to  see  it,"  she  observed  as  with  the 
most  natural  concern  for  a  manifesto  so  compro- 
mising to  the  —  already  in  his  day,  alas,  so  painfully 
compromised  —  author  of  it. 

"I  thought  you  might,"  said  Newman,  "and  I've 
taken  a  copy."  He  drew  from  his  waistcoat  pocket 
a  small  folded  sheet. 

"Give  it  to  my  son,"  she  returned  with  decision; 
on  which  Newman  handed  it  to  the  Marquis  while 
she  simply  added  "Look  at  the  thing."  M.  de  Belle* 

492 


THE  AMERICAN 

garde's  eyes  had  a  pale  irrepressible  eagerness;  he 
took  the  paper  in  his  light-gloved  fingers  and  opened 
it.  There  was  a  silence  during  which  he  took  it  in. 
He  had  more  than  time  to  read  it,  but  still  he  said 
nothing;  he  stood  looking  at  it  hard.  "Where's  the 
original  ?"  his  mother  meantime  asked  in  a  voice  of 
the  most  disinterested  curiosity. 

"  In  a  very  safe  place.  Of  course  I  can't  show  you 
that"  Newman  went  on  —  "a  treasure  the  value 
of  which  makes  it  sacred  to  me.  You  might  want 
to  grab  it,"  he  added  with  conscious  quaintness, 
"and  I've  too  much  other  use  for  it.  But  this 
is  a  very  correct  copy  —  except  of  course  the  hand- 
writing: I'll  get  it  properly  certified  for  you  if  you 
wish.  That  ought  to  suit  you  —  its  being  properly 
certified." 

The  Marquis  at  last  raised  a  countenance  deeply 
and  undisguisedly  flushed.  "It  will  require,"  he 
nevertheless  lightly  remarked,  "a  vast  deal  of  certi- 
fication!" 

"Well,"  Newman  returned,  "we  can  always  fall 
back  on  the  original." 

"I'm  speaking,"  said  the  Marquis,  "of  the  orig- 
inal." 

"Ah,  that,  I  think,  will  speak  for  itself.  Still,  w< 
can  easily  get  as  many  persons  as  possible  —  as 
many  of  those  who  knew  the  writer's  hand  —  to 
speak  for  it.  Think  of  the  number  it  will  interest 
—  if  I  begin,  myself,  say,  with  the  Duchess,  that 
amiable,  very  stout  lady  whose  name  I  forget,  but 
who  was  pleasant  to  me  at  your  party.  She  asked 
me  to  come  to  see  her,  and  I  've  been  thinking  that  in 

493 


THE  AMERICAN 

that  case  I  should  n't  have  much  to  say  to  her  But 
such  a  matter  as  this  gives  me  plenty!" 

"You  had  better,  at  this  rate,  keep  what  you  have 
there,  my  son,"  the  old  woman  quavered  with  a 
strained  irony. 

"By  all  means,"  Newman  said  —  "keep  it  and 
show  it  to  your  mother  when  you  get  home." 

"And  after  enlisting  the  Duchess?"  asked  the 
Marquis,  who  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  away. 

"Well,  there  are  all  the  other  people  you  had  the 
cruelty  to  introduce  me  to  in  a  character  of  which 
you  were  capable,  at  the  next  turn,  of  rudely  divest- 
ing me.  Many  of  them  immediately  afterwards  left 
cards  on  me,  so  that  I  have  their  names  correctly  and 
shall  know  how  to  find  them." 

For  a  moment,  on  this,  neither  of  Newman's 
friends  spoke;  the  Marquise  sat  looking  down  very 
hard,  while  her  son's  blanched  pupils  were  fixed  on 
her  face.  "Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  ?"  she  finally 
asked. 

"No,  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  more.  I  want  to 
say  that  I  hope  you  quite  understand  what  I  'm  ab«uit. 
This  is  my  vindication,  you  know,  of  my  claim  that 
I've  been  cruelly  wronged.  You've  treated  me  be- 
fore the  world,  convened  for  the  expiess  purpose,  as 
if  I  were  not  good  enough  for  you.  I  mean  to  show 
the  world  that,  however  bad  I  may  be,  you're  not 
quite  the  people  to  say  it." 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  was  silent  again,  and  then, 
with  a  return  of  her  power  to  face  him,  she  dealt  with 
his  point.  Her  coolness  continued  to  affect  him  as 
consummate;  he  wondered  of  what  alarms,  what 

494 


THE  AMERICAN 

effronteries,  what  suspicions  and  what  precautions 
she  had  not  had,  from  far  back,  to  make  her  life. 
"  I  need  n't  ask  you  who  has  been  your  accomplice 
in  this  clumsy  fraud.  Catherine  Bread  told  me  you 
had  purchased  her  services." 

"Don't  accuse  Mrs.  Bread  of  venality,"  Newman 
returned.  "She  has  kept  your  secret  all  these  years. 
She  has  given  you  a  long  respite.  It  was  beneath  her 
eyes  your  husband  wrote  that  paper;  he  put  it  into 
her  hands  with  a  solemn  injunction  that  she  was  to 
make  it  public.  You've  had  the  benefit  of  her  merci- 
ful delay." 

The  Marquise  appeared  for  an  instant  to  hesitate, 
and  then,  "My  husband,  for  years,  did  what  he  — 
most  remarkably!  —  liked  with  her,"  she  declared 
dryly  enough.  "She  was  perhaps  the  meanest  of  his 
many  mistresses."  This  was  the  only  concession  to 
self-defence  that  she  condescended  to  make. 

"I  very  much  doubt  that,"  said  Newman.  "I  be- 
lieve in  her  decency." 

Madame  de  Bellegarde  got  up  from  her  bench. 
"  It  was  n't  to  your  beliefs  —  however  interesting  in 
themselves  —  I  undertook  to  listen;  so  that,  if  you've 
nothing  left  but  them  to  tell  me,  this  charming  inter- 
view may  terminate."  And  turning  to  the  Marquis 
she  took  his  arm  again.  "My  son,"  she  then  oddly 
resumed,  "say  something!" 

He  looked  down  at  her,  passing  his  hand  over  his 
forehead  to  the  positive  displacement  of  his  hat;  with 
which,  tenderly,  caressingly,  "What  shall  I  say?"  he 
too  uncertainly  enquired. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  say  —  that  it  was  really 

495 


THE  AMERICAN 

not  worth  while,  on  such  a  showing,  to  have  pulled 
us  up  in  the  street  like  a  pair  of  pickpockets." 

But  the  Marquis  thought  he  could  surpass  this. 
"Your  paper's  of  course  the  crudest  of  forgeries,"  he 
said  to  Newman. 

Newman  shook  his  head  all  amusedly.  "M.  de 
Bellegarde,  your  mother  does  better.  She  has  done 
better  all  along,  from  the  first  of  my  knowing  you. 
You're  a  mighty  plucky  woman,  madam,"  he  con- 
tinued. "It's  a  great  pity  you've  made  me  your 
enemy.  I  should  have  been  one  of  vour  greatest 
admirers." 

"  Mon  pauvre  ami"  she  proceeded  to  her  son,  and 
as  if  she  had  not  heard  these  words,  "you  must  take 
me  immediately  to  my  carriage." 

Newman  stepped  back  and  let  them  leave  him;  he 
watched  them  a  moment  and  saw  Madame  Urbain, 
with  her  little  girl,  wander  out  of  a  by-path  to  meet 
them.  The  Marquise  stooped  and  kissed  her  grand- 
child. "Damn  it,  she  is  plucky!"  he  sighed;  and  he 
walked  home  with  a  sense  of  having  been  almost 
worsted.  She  was  so  quite  heroically  impenetrable. 
But  on  reflexion  he  decided  that  what  he  had  wit- 
nessed was  no  real  sense  of  security,  still  less  a  real 
innocence.  It  was  only  a  very  superior  style  of  brazen 
assurance,  of  what  M.  Nioche  called  V usage  du  monde 
and  Mrs.  Tristram  called  the  grand  manner.  "Wait 
till  she  has  seen  how  he  puts  it!"  he  said  to  himself; 
and  he  concluded  that  he  should  hear  from  her  soon. 

He  heard  sooner  than  he  expected.  The  next 
morning,  before  midday,  when  he  was  about  to  give 
orders  for  his  breakfast  to  be  served,  M.  de  Belie- 

496 


THE  AMERICAN 

garde's  card  was  brought  him.  "She  has  seen  how 
he  puts  it  and  she  has  passed  a  bad  night/'  he 
promptly  inferred.  He  instantly  admitted  his  visitor, 
who  came  in  with  the  air  of  the  ambassador  of  a  great 
power  meeting  the  delegate  of  a  barbarous  tribe 
whom  an  absurd  accident  had  enabled  for  the  mo- 
ment to  be  abominably  annoying.  The  ambassador, 
at  any  rate,  had  also  passed  a  bad  night,  and  his 
faultlessly  careful  array  only  threw  into  relief  the  sick 
rancour  of  his  eyes  and  those  mottled  spots  on  his  fine 
skin  that  resembled,  to  his  host's  imagination,  the 
hard  finger-prints  of  fear.  He  stood  there  a  moment, 
breathing  quickly  and  painfully  and  shaking  his  fore- 
finger curtly  as  Newman  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"What  I've  come  to  say  is  soon  said  and  can  only 
be  said  without  ceremony." 

"I'm  good  for  as  much  or  for  as  little  as  you 
desire." 

The  Marquis  looked  round  the  room  and  then: 
"On  what  terms  will  you  part  with  what  you  call 
your  original  ?" 

"Ah,  on  none!"  And  while,  with  his  head  on  one 
side  and  his  hands  behind  him,  he  sounded  his 
visitor's  depth  of  detestation,  Newman  added:  "Cer- 
tainly that's  not  worth  sitting  down  about." 

M.  de  Bellegarde  went  on,  however,  as  without 
having  heard  him.  "  My  mother  and  I,  last  evening, 
talked  over  your  story.  You'll  be  surprised  to  learn 
that  we  think  your  little  document  is  —  a"  —  and  he 
held  back  his  word  a  moment  —  "characteristic." 

Newman  laughed  out  as  it  came.  "  Of  your  mother 
and  you,  you  mean  ?" 

497 


THE  AMERICAN 

*'Of  my  deplorable  father. 

"You  forget  that  with  you  I'm  used  to  surprises!" 
Newman  gaily  pursued. 

"The  very  scantest  consideration  we  owe  his 
memory,"  the  Marquis  continued,  "makes  us  desire 
he  should  n't  be  held  up  to  the  world  as  the  author 
of  an  elaborately  malignant  attack  on  the  reputation 
of  a  wife  whose  only  fault  was  that  she  had  been 
submissive  to  repeated  outrage." 

"Oh,  I  see!  It's  for  your  father's  sake!"  And 
Newman  laughed  the  laugh  in  which  he  indulged 
when  he  was,  if  not  most  amused,  at  any  rate  most 
pleased  —  an  intimate  noiseless  laugh  with  closed 
lips. 

But  M.  de  Bellegarde's  gravity  held  good.  "There 
are  a  few  of  his  particular  friends  for  whom  the 
knowledge  of  so  unfortunate  an  inspiration  would  be 
a  real  grief.  Even  say  we  firmly  established  by  med- 
ical evidence  the  presumption  of  a  mind  disordered 
by  fever,  il  en  resterait  quelque  chose.  At  the  best  it 
would  look  ill  in  him.  Very  ill!" 

"Don't  try  medical  evidence,"  said  Newman. 
"  Don't  touch  the  doctors  and  they  won't  touch  you. 
I  don't  mind  your  knowing  that  I've  not  written  to 
either  of  the  gentlemen  present  at  the  event." 

He  flattered  himself  he  saw  signs  in  his  visitor's 
discoloured  mask  that  this  information  was  extremely 
pertinent.  The  Marquis  remained,  however,  irreduc- 
ibly  argumentative.  "  For  instance  Madame  d'Outre- 
ville,  of  whom  you  spoke  yesterday.  I  can  imagine 
nothing  that  would  shock  her  more." 

"Oh,  I'm  quite  prepared  to  shock  Madame  d'Ou- 

498 


THE  AMERICAN 

treville.  That's  just  what's  the  matter  with  me, 
I  regularly  want  to  shock  people." 

M.  de  Bellegarde  examined  for  a  moment  the  fine 
white  stitching  on  one  of  his  black  gloves.  Then 
without  looking  up,  "We  don't  offer  you  money,"  he 
said.  "That  we  suppose  to  be  useless." 

Newman,  turning  away,  took  a  few  turns  about  the 
room  and  then  came  back.  "What  do  you  offer  me  ? 
By  what  I  can  make  out  the  generosity  is  all  to  be  on 
my  side." 

The  Marquis  dropped  his  arms  at  his  flanks  and 
held  his  head  a  little  higher.  "What  we  offer  you  is 
a  chance  —  a  chance  a  gentleman  should  appreciate. 
A  chance  to  abstain  from  inflicting  a  terrible  blot 
upon  the  memory  of  a  man  who  certainly  had  his 
faults,  but  who,  personally,  had  done  you  no  wrong." 

"There  are  two  things  to  say  to  that,"  Newman 
returned.  "The  first  is,  as  regards  appreciating  your 
'chance,'  that  you  don't  consider  me  a  gentleman. 
That's  your  great  point,  you  know.  It's  a  poor  rule 
that  won't  work  both  ways.  The  second  is  that  — 
V7ell,  in  a  word,  you're  talking  sad  nonsense." 

In  the  midst  of  his  bitterness  he  had  kept  well 
before  his  eyes,  as  I  have  noted,  a  certain  ideal  of 
saying  nothing  rude,  and  he  felt  a -quick  scruple  for 
the  too  easy  impatience  of  these  words.  But  the  Mar- 
quis took  them  more  quietly  than  might  have  been 
expected.  Sublime  ambassador  that  he  was,  he  con- 
tinued the  policy  of  ignoring  what  was  disagreeable 
in  his  adversary's  replies.  He  gazed  at  the  gilded 
arabesques  on  the  opposite  wall  and  then  trans- 
ferred his  glance  to  his  host  as  if  he  too  had  been 

499 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  large  grotesque  in  a  vulgar  system  of  chamber- 
decoration.  "I  suppose  you  know  that,  as  regards 
yourself,  a  course  so  confessedly  vindictive  —  vindic- 
tive in  respect  to  your  discomfiture  —  won't  do  at  all." 

"How  do  you  mean  it  won't  do  ?" 

"Why,  of  course  you  utterly  damn  yourself.  But 
I  suppose  that's  in  your  programme.  You  propose 
to  throw  at  us  this  horrible  ordure  that  you've  raked 
together,  and  you  believe,  you  hope,  that  some  of  it 
may  stick.  We  know  naturally  it  can't,"  explained 
the  Marquis  in  a  tone  of  conscious  lucidity;  "  but  you 
take  the  chance  and  are  willing  at  any  rate  to  show 
that  you  yourself  have  dirty  hands." 

"That's  a  good  comparison;  at  least  half  of  it  is," 
said  Newman.  "I  take  the  chance  of  something 
cticking.  But  as  regards  my  hands,  they're  clean. 
I  've  taken  the  awful  thing  up  with  my  finger-tips." 

M.  de  Bellegarde  looked  a  moment  into  his  hat. 
"All  our  friends  are  quite  with  us.  They  would  have 
done  exactly  as  we've  done." 

"I  shall  believe  that  when  I  hear  them  say  it. 
Meanwhile  I  shall  think  better  of  human  nature." 

The  Marquis  looked  into  his  hat  again.  "My  poor 
perverse  sister  was  extremely  fond  of  her  father.  If 
she  knew  of  the  .existence  of  the  few  base  words  — 
at  once  mad  and  base  —  of  which  you  propose  to 
make  this  scandalous  use,  she  would  require  of  you, 
proudly,  for  his  sake,  to  give  them  up  to  her,  and  she 
would  destroy  them  on  the  spot." 

"Very  possibly,"  Newman  rejoined.  "But  it's  ex- 
actly what  shewon'tknow.  I  was  in  that  hideous  place 
yesterday,  and  I  know  what  she's  doing.  Lord  of 

500 


THE  AMERICAN 

mercy!  You  can  guess  whether  it  made  me  feel  for- 
giving!" 

M.  de  Bellegarde  appeared  to  have  nothing  more 
to  suggest;  but  he  continued  to  stand  there,  rigid  and 
elegant,  as  a  man  who  had  believed  his  mere  per- 
sonal presence  would  have  had  an  argumentative 
value.  Newman  watched  him  and,  without  yielding 
an  inch  on  the  main  issue,  felt  an  incongruously  good- 
natured  impulse  to  help  him  to  retreat  in  good  order. 
"Your  idea,  you  see  —  though  ingenious  in  its  way 
—  does  n't  work.  You  offer  too  little." 

"  Propose  something  yourself,"  the  Marquis  at  last 
brought  out. 

"Give  me  back  Madame  de  Cintre  relieved  of  the 
blight  and  free  of  the  poison  that  are  all  of  your 
producing." 

M.  de  Bellegarde  threw  up  his  head  and  his  flush 
darkly  spread.  "Never!" 

"You  can't!" 

"We  would  n't  if  we  could!  In  the  sentiment 
which  led  us  to  deprecate  her  marriage  to  you  nothing 
is  changed." 

1  'Deprecate'  is  lovely!"  cried  Newman.  "It  was 
hardly  worth  while  to  come  here  only  to  tell  me  that 
you're  not  ashamed  of  yourselves.  I  should  have  come 
to  think  of  you  perhaps  as  in  your  guilt-burdened 
hearts  almost  pitifully  miserable." 

The  Marquis  slowly  walked  toward  the  door,  and 
Newman,  following,  opened  it  for  him.  "  Your  hawk- 
ing that  tatter  about  will  be,  on  your  part,  the  vulgar- 
est  proceeding  conceivable,  and,  as  having  admitted 
you  to  our  intimite,  we  shall  proportionately  wince 

501 


THE  AMERICAN 

for  it.  That  we  quite  feel.  But  it  won't  otherwise 
incommode  us." 

"Well,"  said  Newman  after  reflexion,  "I  don't 
know  that  I  want  to  do  anything  worse  than  make 
you  regret  your  connexion  with  me.  Only  don't  be 
sure  you  know  yet,"  he  added,  "how  very  much  you 
may  regret  it." 

M.  de  Bellegarde  stood  a  moment  looking  on  the 
ground,  as  if  ransacking  his  brain  to  see  what  else  he 
could  do  to  save  his  father's  reputation.  Then,  with 
a  small  cold  sigh,  he  seemed  to  signify  that  he  regret- 
fully surrendered  the  late  Marquis  to  the  penalty  of 
his  turpitude.  He  gave  a  scant  shrug,  took  his  neat 
umbrella  from  the  servant  in  the  vestibule  and,  with 
his  gentlemanly  walk,  passed  out.  Newman  stood 
listening  till  he  heard  the  door  close;  then  for  some 
minutes  he  moved  to  and  fro  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  a  sound  like  the  low  hum  of  a  jig  pro- 
ceeding from  the  back  of  his  mouth. 


XXV 

HE  called  on  the  immense,  the  comical  Duchess  and 
found  her  at  home.  An  old  gentleman  with  a  high 
nose  and  a  gold-headed  cane  was  just  taking  leave; 
he  made  Newman  a  protracted  obeisance  as  he  re- 
tired, and  our  hero  supposed  him  one  of  the  high 
personages  with  whom  he  had  shaken  hands  at 
Madame  de  Bellegarde's  party.  The  Duchess,  in  her 
armchair,  from  which  she  did  n't  move,  with  a  great 
flower-pot  on  one  side  of  her,  a  pile  of  pink-covered 
novels  on  the  other  and  a  large  piece  of  tapestry 
depending  from  her  lap,  presented  an  expansive  and 
imposing  front;  but  her  aspect  was  in  the  highest 
degree  gracious  and  there  was  nothing  in  her  manner 
to  check  the  effusion  of  his  confidence.  She  talked  to 
him  of  flowers  and  books,  getting  launched  with  mar- 
vellous promptitude;  about  the  theatres,  about  the 
peculiar  institutions  of  his  native  country,  about  the 
humidity  of  Paris,  about  the  pretty  complexions  of 
the  American  ladies,  about  his  impressions  of  France 
and  his  opinion  of  its  female  inhabitants.  All  this 
had  a  large  free  flow  on  the  part  of  the  Duchess,  who, 
like  many  of  her  countrywomen,  was  a  person  of  an 
affirmative  rather  than  an  interrogative  cast,  who 
uttered  "good  things"  and  put  them  herself  into 
circulation,  and  who  was  apt  to  offer  you  a  present 
of  a  convenient  little  opinion  neatly  enveloped  in  the 
gilt  paper  of  a  happy  Gallicism.  Newman  had  come 

503 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  her  with  a  grievance,  but  he  fuund  himself  in  an 
atmosphere  in  which  apparently  no  cognisance  was 
taken  of  such  matters;  an  atmosphere  into  which  the 
chill  of  discomfort  had  never  penetrated  and  which 
seemed  exclusively  made  up  of  mild,  sweet,  stale  in- 
tellectual perfumes.  The  feeling  with  which  he  had 
watched  Madame  d'Outreville  at  the  treacherous 
festival  of  the  Bellegardes  came  back  to  him;  she 
struck  him  as  a  wonderful  old  lady  in  some  particu- 
larly "high"  comedy,  thoroughly  well  up  in  her  part. 
He  noticed  before  long  that  she  asked  him  no  ques- 
tion about  their  common  friends;  she  made  no  allu- 
sion to  the  circumstances  under  which  he  had  been 
presented  to  her.  She  neither  feigned  ignorance  of 
a  change  in  these  circumstances  nor  pretended  to 
condole  with  him  upon  it;  but  she  smiled  and  dis- 
coursed and  compared  the  tender-tinted  wools  of  her 
tapestry  as  if  the  Bellegardes  and  their  wickedness 
were  not  of  this  world.  "She's  fighting  shy!"  he 
said  to  himself;  and,  having  drawn  the  inference,  was 
curious  to  see,  further,  how,  if  this  were  a  policy,  she 
would  carry  it  off.  She  did  so  in  a  masterly  manner. 
There  was  not  a  gleam  of  disguised  consciousness  in 
the  small,  clear,  demonstrative  eyes  which  constituted 
her  nearest  claim  to  personal  loveliness;  there  was  not 
a  symptom  of  apprehension  he  would  trench  on  any 
ground  she  proposed  to  avoid.  "Upon  my  word,  she 
does  it  very  well,"  he  tacitly  commented.  "They  all 
hold  together  bravely,  and,  whether  any  one  else  can 
trust  them  or  not,  they  can  certainly  trust  each  other." 
He  fell  at  this  juncture  to  admiring  the  Duchess  foi 
her  fine  manners.  He  felt,  most  accurately,  that  she 

504 


THE  AMERICAN 

was  not  a  grain  less  urbane  than  she  would  have  been 
if  his  marriage  were  still  in  prospect;  but  he  was 
aware  also  that  she  led  him  on  no  single  inch  further. 
He  had  come,  so  reasoned  this  eminent  lady  — 
heaven  knew  why  he  had  come  after  what  had  hap- 
pened; and  for  the  half-hour  therefore  she  would  be. 
charmante.  But  she  would  never  see  him  again. 
Finding  no  ready-made  opportunity  to  tell  his  story, 
he  pondered  these  things  more  dispassionately  than 
might  have  been  expected;  he  stretched  his  legs  as 
usual  and  even  chuckled  a  little  quite  appreciatively 
and  noiselessly.  And  then  as  his  hostess  went  on 
relating  a  mot  with  which  her  mother  had,  in  extreme 
youth,  snubbed  the  great  Napoleon,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  her  evasion  of  a  chapter  of  French  history 
more  interesting  to  himself  might  possibly  be  the 
result  of  an  extreme  consideration  for  his  feelings. 
Perhaps  it  was  delicacy  rather  than  diplomacy.  He 
was  on  the  point  of  saying  something  himself,  to 
make  the  chance  he  had  determined  to  give  her  still 
better,  when  the  servant  announced  another  visitor. 
The  Duchess  on  hearing  the  name  —  it  was  that  of 
an  Italian  prince  —  gave  a  little  imperceptible  pout 
and  said  to  him  rapidly:  "I  beg  you  to  remain;  I  de- 
sire this  visit  to  be  short/'  He  wondered,  at  this,  if 
they  might  n't  then  after  all  get  round  to  the  Belle- 
gardes. 

The  Prince  was  a  short  stout  man,  with  a  head 
disproportionately  large.  He  had  a  dusky  complexion 
and  bushy  eyebrows,  beneath  which  glowed  a  fixed 
and  somewhat  defiant  stare;  he  seemed  to  be  chal- 
you  to  hint  that  he  might  be  hydrocephalic. 

5°5 


THE  AMERICAN 

The  Duchess,  judging  from  her  charge  to  our  own 
friend,  regarded  him  as  a  bore;  but  this  was  not 
apparent  from  the  unchecked  abundance  of  her 
speech.  She  caused  it  to  frisk  hither  and  yon  as  to 
some  old  rococo  music  and  then  pull  up  on  a  mot 
after  the  fashion  in  which  a  stage-dancer  whirls,  for 
breath  and  with  arms  arranged,  into  ecstatic  equi- 
librium; she  characterised  with  great  felicity  the 
Italian  intellect  and  the  taste  of  the  figs  at  Sorrento, 
predicted  the  ultimate  future  of  the  Italian  kingdom 
(disgust  with  the  brutal  Sardinian  rule  and  complete 
reversion,  throughout  the  peninsula,  to  the  mild  sway 
of  the  Holy  Father)  and,  finally,  took  up  the  heart- 
history  of  their  friend  cette  paume  Prtncesse,  a  lady 
unknown  to  Newman,  who  had  notoriously  so  much 
heart.  This  record  exposed  itself  to  a  considerable 
control  from  the  Prince,  who  was  evidently  not  re- 
lated to  the  heroine  in  question  otherwise  than  by 
an  intimate  familiarity  with  her  annals;  and  having 
satisfied  himself  that  Newman  was  in  no  laughing 
mood,  either  with  regard  to  the  size  of  his  head  or  the 
authenticity  of  his  facts,  he  entered  into  the  contro- 
versy with  an  animation  for  which  the  Duchess,  when 
she  set  him  down  as  a  bore,  could  not  have  been  pre- 
pared. The  often  so  oddly-directed  passions  of  their 
friend  led  Newman's  companions  to  a  discussion  of 
the  cote  passionel  of  the  Florentine  nobility  in  general; 
the  Duchess  had  lately  spent  several  weeks  in  the  very 
bosom  of  that  body  and  gathered  much  information 
on  the  subject.  This  was  merged,  in  turn,  in  an  ex- 
amination of  the  Italian  heart  per  se.  The  Duchess, 
who  had  arrived  at  highly  original  conclusions, 


THE  AMERICAN 

thought  it  the  least  susceptible  organ  of  its  kind  tha? 
she  had  ever  encountered,  related  examples  of  its 
Machiavellian  power  to  calculate  its  perils  and  pro- 
fits, and  at  last  declared  that  for  her  the  race  were 
half  arithmetic  and  half  ice.  The  Prince  became 
flame  and  rhetoric  to  refute  her,  and  his  visit  really 
proved  charming. 

Newman  was  naturally  out  of  the  fray;  he  sat  with 
his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  watching  the  interlocu- 
tors. The  Duchess,  as  she  talked,  frequently  looked 
at  him  with  a  smile,  as  if  to  intimate,  in  the  charming 
manner  of  her  nation,  that  it  lay  only  with  him  to  say 
something  very  much  to  the  point.  ,But  he  said 
nothing  at  all,  and  at  last  his  thoughts  began  to 
wander.  A  singular  feeling  came  over  him  —  a  sud- 
den sense  of  the  folly  of  his  errand.  What  under  the 
sun  had  he  after  all  to  say  to  the  Duchess  ?  Wheiein 
would  it  profit  him  to  denounce  the  Bellegardes  to 
her  for  traitors  and  the  Marquise  into  the  bargain 
for  a  murderess  ?  He  seemed  morally  to  have  turned 
a  high  somersault  and  to  find  things  looking  differently 
in  consequence.  He  felt,  as  by  the  effect  of  some 
colder  current  of  the  air,  his  will  stiffen  in  another 
direction  and  the  mantle  of  his  reserve  draw  closer. 
What  in  the  world  had  he  been  thinking  of  when 
he  fancied  Madame  d'Outreville  could  help  him  and 
that  it  would  conduce  to  his  comfort  to  make  her 
^hink  ill  of  the  Bellegardes  ?  What  did  her  opinion 
of  the  Bellegardes  matter  to  him  ?  It  was  only  a  shade 
more  important  than  the  opinion  the  Bellegardes 
entertained  of  herself.  The  Duchess  help  him,  that 
cold,  stout,  soft,  artificial  woman  help  him  r  —  she 

.507 


THE  AMERICAN 

who  in  the  last  twenty  minutes  had  built  up  between 
them  a  wall  of  polite  conversation  in  which  she  evi- 
dently flattered  herself  he  would  never  find  a  gate  ? 
Had  it  come  to  this  —  that  he  was  asking  favours  of 
false  gods  and  appealing  for  sympathy  where  he  had 
no  sympathy  to  give  ?  He  rested  his  arms  on  his 
knees  and  sat  for  some  minutes  staring  into  his  hat. 
As  he  did  so  his  ears  tingled  —  was  he  to  have  brayed 
like  that  animal  whose  ears  are  longest  ?  Whether  or 
no  the  Duchess  would  hear  his  story  he  would  n't  tell 
it.  Was  he  to  sit  there  another  half-hour  for  the  sake 
of  exposing  the  Bellegardes  ?  The  Bellegardes  be 
deeply  damned!  He  got  up  abruptly  and  advanced 
to  shake  hands  with  his  hostess. 

"You  can't  stay  longer  ?"  she  graciously  asked. 

"If  you'll  pardon  me,  no." 

She  hesitated,  and  then,  "1  had  an  idea  you  had 
something  particular  to  say  to  me,"  she  returned. 

Newman  met  her  eyes;  he  felt  a  little  dizzy;  for  the 
moment  he  was  conscious  of  the  high  —  or  at  least 
the  higher  —  air  in  which  he  performed  gymnastic 
revolutions.  The  little  Italian  prince  came  to  his  help. 
"Ah,  madame,  who  has  not  that  ?"  he  richly  sighed. 

"  Don't  teach  Mr.  Newman  to  say  jadaises"  said 
the  Duchess.  "It's  his  merit  that  he  does  n't  know 
how." 

"Yes,  I  don't  know  how  to  say  fadaises,"  Newman 
admitted,  "and  1  don't  want  to  say  anything  un- 
pleasant." 

"I'm  sure  you're  very  considerate,"  Madame 
d'Outreville  smiled;  and  she  gave  him  a  little  nod  for 
all  good-bye,  with  which  he  took  his  departure. 

<;o8 


THE  AMERICAN 

Once  in  the  street  he  stood  for  some  time  on  the 
pavement,  wondering  if  after  all  he  had  not  been  most 
an  ass  not  to  offer  to  the  great  lady's  inhalation  his 
nosegay  of  strange  flowers.  And  then  he  decided,  he 
quite  had  the  sense  of  discovering,  that  he  should 
simply  hate  to  talk  of  the  Bellegardes  with  any  one. 
The  thing  he  most  wanted  to  do,  it  suddenly  ap- 
peared, was  to  banish  them  from  his  mind  and  never 
think  of  them  again.  Indecision  had,  however,  not 
hitherto  been  one  of  his  weaknesses,  and  in  this  case 
it  was  not  of  long  duration.  For  three  days  he  applied 
all  his  thought  to  not  thinking  —  thinking,  that  is, 
of  the  Marquise  and  her  son.  He  dined  with  Mrs. 
Tristram  and,  on  her  mentioning  their  name,  re- 
quested her  almost  austerely  to  desist.  This  gave 
Tom  Tristram  a  much-coveted  opportunity  tc  offer 
condolences. 

He  leaned  forward,  laying  his  hand  on  Newman's 
arm,  compressing  his  lips  and  shaking  his  head. 
"The  fact  is,  my  dear  fellow,  you  see  you  ought  never 
to  have  gone  into  it.  It  was  not  your  doing,  I  know 
—  it  was  all  my  wife.  If  you  want  to  come  down  on 
her  I'll  stand  off:  I  give  you  leave  to  hit  her  as  hard 
as  you  like.  You  know  she  has  never  had  a  flick  of 
the  whip  from  me  in  her  life,  and  I  do  think  she  wants 
to  be  a  bit  touched  up.  Why  did  n't  you  listen  to  me? 
You  know  I  did  n't  believe  in  the  thing.  I  thought  it 
at  the  best  a  high  jump  in  which  you  might  bruise 
a  shin.  I  don't  profess  to  have  been  a  tremendous 
homme  a  femmes,  as  they  say  here,  but  I've  instincts 
about  the  sex  that,  hang  it,  I've  honestly  come  by. 
I've  never  mistrusted  a  woman  in  my  life  that  she 

5°9 


THE  AMERICAN 

has  not  turned  out  badly.  I  was  not  at  all  deceived 
in  Lizzie  for  instance;  I  always  had  my  doubts  about 
her.  Whatever  you  may  think  of  my  present  situa- 
tion I  must  at  least  admit  that  I  got  into  it  with  my 
eyes  open.  Now  suppose  you  had  got  into  something 
like  this  box  with  your  grand  cold  Countess.  You 
may  depend  upon  it  she'd  have  turned  out  a  stiff  one. 
And  upon  my  word  I  don't  see  where  you  could  have 
found  your  comfort.  Not  from  the  Marquis,  my  dear 
Newman;  he  was  n't  a  man  you  could  go  and  talk 
things  over  with  in  an  easy  and  natural  way.  Did  he 
ever  seem  to  want  to  have  you  on  the  premises  ?  Did 
he  ever  try  to  see  you  alone  ?  Did  he  ever  ask  you  to 
come  and  smoke  a  cigar  with  him  of  an  evening  or 
step  in,  when  you  had  been  calling  on  the  ladies,  and 
take  something  ?  I  don't  think  you'd  have  got  much 
out  of  him.  And  as  for  that  daughter  of  a  hundred 
earls  his  mother,  she  struck  one  as  an  uncommonly 
strong  dose.  They  have  a  great  expression  here,  you 
know;  they  call  any  damned  thing  ' sympathetic'  — 
that  is  when  it  is  n't  it  ought  to  be.  Now  Madame  de 
Bellegarde's  about  as  sympathetic  as  that  mustard- 
pot.  They're  a  d — d  stony-faced,  cold-blooded  lot 
anyway;  I  felt  it  awfully  at  that  ball  of  theirs.  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  walking  up  and  down  the  Armoury  in  the 
Tower  of  London  —  every  one  cased  in  ancestral 
steel,  every  one  perched  up  in  a  panoply.  My  dear 
boy,  don't  think  me  a  vulgar  brute  for  hinting  it, 
but,  you  may  depend  upon  it,  all  they  wanted  was 
your  money.  I  know  something  about  that;  I  can 
tell  when  people  want  one's  money.  Why  they 
stopped  wanting  yours  I  don't  know;  I  suppose  be- 

510 


THE  AMERICAN 

cause  they  could  get  some  one  else's  without  working 
so  hard  for  it.  It  is  n't  worth  finding  out.  It  may  be 
it  was  not  with  your  Countess,  Lizzie's  and  yours, 
that  the  idea  of  chucking  you  originated;  very  likely 
the  old  woman  put  her  up  to  it.  I  suspect  she  and 
her  mother  are  really  as  thick  as  thieves,  eh  ?  You're 
well  out  of  it,  at  any  rate,  old  man;  make  up  your 
mind  to  that.  If  I  express  myself  strongly  it's  all 
because  I  love  you  so  much;  and  from  that  point  of 
view  I  may  say  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  mak- 
ing up  to  that  piece  of  pale  peculiarity  as  I  should 
have  thought  of  wooing  the  Obelisk  in  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde." 

Newman  sat  gazing  at  Tristram  during  this 
harangue  with  a  lack-lustre  eye;  never  yet  had  he 
seemed  to  himself  to  have  outgrown  so  completely 
the  phase  of  equal  comradeship  with  Tom  Tristram. 
Mrs.  Tristram's  glance  at  her  husband  had  more  of 
a  spark;  she  turned  to  Newman  with  a  slightly  lurid 
smile.  "You  must  at  least  do  justice,"  she  said,  "to 
the  felicity  with  which  he  repairs  the  indiscretions  of 
a  too  zealous  wife." 

But  even  without  the  lash  of  his  friend's  loud 
tongue  Newman  would  have  waked  again  into  his 
bitterest  consciousness.  He  could  keep  it  at  bay  only 
when  he  could  cease  to  miss  what  he  had  lost,  and 
each  day,  for  the  present,  but  added  a  ton  of  weight 
to  that  quantity.  In  vain  Mrs.  Tristram  begged  him 
to  se  faire,  as  she  put  it,  tine  raison;  she  assured  him 
the  sight  of  his  countenance  made  her  wretched. 

"How  can  I  help  it  ?"  he  demanded  with  a  tremb- 
ling voice  —  "  how  can  I  help  it  when  the  sight  of 

5" 


THE  AMERICAN 

everything  makes  me  so  ?  I  feel  exactly  like  a  stunned 
widower  —  and  a  widower  who  has  not  even  the  con- 
solation of  going  to  stand  beside  the  grave  of  his  wife, 
one  who  has  not  the  right  to  wear  so  much  mourning 
as  a  weed  on  his  hat.  I  feel,"  he  added  in  a  moment, 
"as  if  my  wife  had  been  murdered  and  her  assassins 
were  still  at  large." 

Mrs.  Tristram  made  no  immediate  rejoinder,  but 
at  last  she  said  with  a  smile  which,  in  so  far  as  it  was 
a  forced  one,  was  less  successfully  simulated  than  such 
smiles,  on  her  lips,  usually  were:  "Are  you  very  sure 
that  you'd  have  been  happy  ?" 

He  stared,  then  shook  his  head.  "That's  weak; 
that  won't  do." 

"Well,"  she  persisted  as  with  an  idea,  "I  don't 
believe  it  would  have  really  done." 

He  gave  a  sound  of  irritation.  "Say  then  it  would 
have  damnably  failed.  Failure  for  failure  I  should 
have  preferred  that  one  to  this." 

She  took  it  in  her  musing  way.  "I  should  have 
been  curious  to  see;  it  would  have  been  very  strange." 

"Was  it  from  curiosity  that  you  urged  me  to  put 
myself  forward  ?" 

"A  little,"  she  still  more  boldly  answered.  New- 
man gave  her  the  one  angry  look  he  had  been  des- 
tined ever  to  give  her,  turned  away  and  took  up  his 
hat.  She  watched  him  a  moment  and  then  said: 
"That  sounds  very  cruel,  but  it's  less  so  than  it 
sounds.  Curiosity  has  a  share  in  almost  everything 
I  do.  I  wanted  very  much  to  see,  first,  if  such  a  union 
could  actually  come  through;  second,  what  would 
happen  to  it  afterwards." 

512 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  So  you  had  n't  faith,"  he  said  resentfully. 

"Yes,  I  had  faith  — faith  that  it  would  take  place, 
and  that  you'd  be  happy.  Otherwise  I  should  have 
been,  among  my  speculations,  a  very  heartless  crea- 
ture. But,"  she  continued,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm  and  hazarding  a  grave  smile,  "it  was  the  highest 
flight  ever  taken  by  a  tolerably  rich  imagination!" 

Shortly  after  this  she  recommended  him  to  leave 
Paris  and  travel  for  three  months.  Change  of  scene 
would  do  him  good  and  he  would  forget  his  misfor- 
tune sooner  in  absence  from  the  objects  that  had 
witnessed  it.  "I  really  feel,"  he  concurred,  "as  if  to 
leave  you,  at  least,  would  do  me  good  —  and  cost  me 
very  little  effort.  You're  growing  cynical;  you  shock 
me  and  pain  me." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  good-naturedly  or  cynically, 
as  may  appear  most  credible.  "I  shall  certainly  see 
you  again." 

He  was  ready  enough  to  get  quite  away;  the  bril- 
liant streets  he  had  walked  through  in  his  happier 
hours  and  which  then  seemed  to  wear  a  higher 
brilliancy  in  honour  of  his  happiness,  were  now  in  the 
secret  of  his  defeat  and  looked  down  on  it  in  shining 
mockery.  He  would  go  somewhere,  he  cared  little 
where;  and  he  made  his  preparations.  Then  one 
morning  at  haphazard  he  drove  to  the  train  that 
would  transport  him  to  Calais  and  deposit  him  there 
for  despatch  to  the  shores  of  Britain.  As  he  rolled 
along  he  asked  himself  what  had  become  of  his  re- 
venge, and  he  was  able  to  think  of  it  as  provisionally 
pigeonholed  in  a  very  safe  place.  It  would  keep  till 
called  for. 

5*3 


THE  AMERICAN 

He  arrived  in  London  in  the  midst  of  what  is  called 
"the  season,"  and  it  seemed  to  him  at  first  that  he 
might  here  put  himself  in  the  way  of  being  diverted 
from  his  heavy-heartedness.  He  knew  no  one  in  all 
England,  but  the  spectacle  of  the  vaster  and  duskier 
Babylon  roused  him  somewhat  from  his  apathy. 
Anything  that  was  enormous  usually  found  favour 
with  him,  and  the  multitudinous  English  energies 
and  industries  stirred  in  his  spirit  a  dull  vivacity  of 
contemplation.  It  is  on  record  that  the  weather,  at 
that  moment,  was  of  the  finest  insular  quality; 
he  took  long  walks  and  explored  London  in  every 
direction;  he  sat  by  the  hour  in  Kensington  Gardens 
and  beside  the  adjoining  Drive,  watching  the  people 
and  the  horses  and  the  carnages;  the  rosy  English 
beauties,  the  wonderful  English  dandies  and  the 
splendid  flunkies.  He  went  to  the  opera  and  found 
it  better  than  in  Paris;  he  went  to  the  theatre  and 
found  a  surprising  charm  in  listening  to  dialogue  the 
finest  points  of  which  came  within  the  range  of  his 
comprehension.  He  made  several  excursions  into  the 
country,  recommended  by  the  waiter  at  his  hotel, 
with  whom,  on  this  and  similar  points,  he  had  estab- 
lished confidential  relations.  He  watched  the  deer  in 
Windsor  Forest  and  admired  the  Thames  from  Rich- 
mond Hill;  he  ate  whitebait  and  brown  bread-and- 
butter  at  Greenwich;  he  strolled  in  the  grassy  shadow 
of  the  cathedral  of  Canterbury.  He  also  visited  the 
Tower  of  London  and  Madame  Tussaud's  exhibi- 
tion. One  day  he  thought  he  would  go  to  Sheffield, 
and  then,  thinking  again,  gave  it  up.  Why  the  devil 
ihould  he  go  to  Sheffield  ?  He  had  a  feeling  that  the 

514 


THE  AMERICAN 

link  which  bound  him  to  a  possible  interest  in  the 
manufacture  of  cutlery  was  broken.  He  had  no  desire 
for  an  "inside  view"  of  any  successful  enterprise 
whatever,  and  he  would  n't  have  given  the  smallest 
sum  for  the  privilege  of  talking  over  the  details  of  the 
most  splendid  business  with  the  most  original  of 
managers. 

One  afternoon  he  had  walked  into  the  Park  and 
was  slowly  threading  his  way  through  the  human 
maze  which  fringes  the  Drive.  This  stream  was  no 
less  dense,  and  Newman,  as  usual,  marvelled  at  the 
strange  dowdy  figures  he  saw  taking  the  air  in  some 
of  the  most  shining  conveyances.  They  reminded 
him  of  what  he  had  read  of  Eastern  and  Southern 
countiies,  in  which  grotesque  idols  and  fetiches  were 
sometimes  drawn  out  of  their  temples  and  carried 
abroad  in  golden  chariots  to  be  seen  of  the  people. 
He  noted  a  great  many  pretty  cheeks  beneath  high- 
plumed  hats  as  he  squeezed  his  way  through  serried 
waves  of  crumpled  muslin;  and,  sitting  on  little  chairs 
at  the  base  of  the  dull,  massive  English  trees,  he 
observed  a  number  of  quiet-eyed  maidens  who  seemed 
only  to  remind  him  afresh  that  the  magic  of  beauty 
had  gone  out  of  the  world  with  the  woman  wrenched 
from  him:  to  say  nothing  of  other  damsels  whose  eyes 
were  not  quiet  and  who  struck  him  still  moie  as  a 
satire  on  possible  consolation.  He  had  been  walking 
for  some  time  when,  directly  in  front  of  him,  borne 
toward  him  by  the  summer  breeze,  he  heard  a  few 
words  uttered  in  the  bright  Parisian  idiom  his  ears 
had  begun  to  forget.  The  voice  in  which  the  words 
were  spoken  was  a  peculiar  recall,  and  as  he  bent  his 

515 


THE  AMERICAN 

eyes  it  lent  an  identity  to  the  commonplace  elegance 
of  the  back  view  of  a  young  lady  walking  in  the  same 
direction  as  himself.  Mademoiselle  Nioche,  seeking 
her  fortune,  had  apparently  thought  she  might  find 
it  faster  in  London,  and  another  glance  led  him  to 
wonder  if  she  might  now  have  lighted  on  it.  A  geritle- 
.3nan  strolled  beside  her,  lending  an  attentive  ear  to 
)ier  conversation  and  too  beguiled  to  open  his  lips. 
Newman  caught  no  sound  of  him,  but  had  the  im- 
pression of  English  shoulders,  an  English  "fit,"  an 
English  silence.  Mademoiselle  Nioche  was  attracting 
attention:  the  ladies  who  passed  her  turned  round  as 
with  a  sense  of  the  Parisian  finish.  A  great  cataract 
of  flounces  rolled  down  from  the  young  lady's  waist 
to  Newman's  feet;  he  had  to  step  aside  to  avoid 
treading  on  them.  He  stepped  aside  indeed  with  a 
decision  of  movement  that  the  occasion  scarcely 
demanded;  for  even  this  imperfect  glimpse  of  Miss 
Noemie  had  sharpened  again  his  constant  soreness. 
She  seemed  an  odious  blot  on  the  face  of  nature;  he 
wanted  to  put  her  out  of  his  sight.  He  thought  of 
Valentin  de  Bellegarde  still  green  in  the  earth  of  his 
burial,  his  young  life  giving  way  to  this  flourishing 
impudence.  The  fragrance  of  the  girl's  bravery  quite 
sickened  him;  he  turned  his  head  and  tried  to  keep 
his  distance;  but  the  pressure  of  the  crowd  held  him 
near  her  a  minute  longer,  so  that  he  heard  what  she 
was  saying. 

"Ah,  I'm  sure  he'll  miss  me,"  she  murmured.  "It 
was  very  cruel  of  me  to  leave  him;  I'm  afraid  you'll 
think  I  've  very  little  heart.  He  might  perfectly  have 
remained  with  us.  I  don't  think  he's  very  well." 


THE  AMERICAN 

she  added;  "it  seemed  to  me  to-day  he  was  rather 

down." 

Newman  wondered  whom  she  was  talking  about, 
but  just  then  an  opening  among  his  neighbours 
enabled  him  to  turn  away,  and  he  said  to  himself  that 
she  was  probably  paying  a  tribute  to  British  propri- 
ety and  feigning  a  tender  solicitude  about  her  parent. 
Was  that  miserable  old  man  still  treading  the  path  of 
vice  in  her  train  ?  Was  he  still  giving  her  the  benefit 
of  his  experience  of  affairs,  and  had  he  crossed  the 
sea  to  serve  as  her  interpreter  ?  Newman  walked 
some  distance  further  and  then  began  to  retrace  his 
steps,  taking  care  not  to  accompany  again  those  of 
Mademoiselle  Nioche.  At  last  he  looked  for  a  chair 
under  the  trees,  but  he  had  some  difficulty  in  finding 
an  empty  one.  He  was  about  to  give  up  the  search 
when  he  saw  a  gentleman  rise  from  the  seat  he  had 
been  occupying,  leaving  our  friend  to  take  it  without 
looking  at  his  neighbours.  Newman  sat  there  for 
some  time  without  heeding  them;  his  attention  was 
lost  in  the  rage  of  his  renewed  vision  of  the  little 
fatal  fact  of  Noemie.  But  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  dropping  his  eyes,  he  perceived  a  small  pug- 
dog  squatted  on  the  path  near  his  feet  —  a  diminu- 
tive but  very  perfect  specimen  of  its  interesting 
species.  The  pug  was  sniffing  at  the  fashionable 
world,  as  it  passed  him,  with  his  little  black  muzzle, 
and  was  kept  from  extending  his  investigation  by 
a  large  blue  ribbon  attached  to  his  collar  with  an 
enormous  rosette  and  held  in  the  hand  of  a  person 
seated  next  Newman.  To  this  person  our  hero  trans- 
ferred his  attention,  and  immediately  found  himself 

517 


THE  AMERICAN 

the  object  of  all  that  of  his  neighbour,  who  was  star- 
ing up  at  him  from  a  pair  of  little  fixed  white  eyes. 
These  eyes  he  instantly  recognised;  he  had  been  sit- 
ting for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  beside  M.  Nioche. 
He  had  vaguely  felt  himself  in  range  of  some  feeble 
fire.  M.  Nioche  continued  to  stare;  he  appeared 
afraid  to  move  even  to  the  extent  of  saving  by  flight 
what  might  have  been  left  of  his  honour. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Newman;  "are  you  here  too  ?" 
And  he  looked  at  his  neighbour's  helplessness  more 
grimly  than  he  knew.  M.  Nioche  had  a  new  hat  and 
a  pair  of  kid  gloves;  his  clothes  too  seemed  to  belong 
to  an  eld  less  hoary  than  of  yore.  Over  his  arm  was 
suspended  a  lady's  mantilla  —  a  light  and  brilliant 
tissue,  fringed  with  white  lace  —  which  had  appar- 
ently been  committed  to  his  keeping;  and  the  little 
dog's  blue  ribbon  was  wound  tightly  round  his  hand. 
There  was  no  hint  of  recognition  in  his  face  —  nor  of 
anything  save  a  feeble  fascinated  dread.  Newman 
looked  at  the  pug  and  the  lace  mantilla  and  then  met 
the  old  man's  eyes  again.  "You  know  me,  I  see,"  he 
pursued.  "You  might  have  spoken  to  me  before." 
M.  Nioche  still  said  nothing,  but  it  seemed  to  his  ex- 
patron  that  his  eyes  began  faintly  to  water.  "  I  did  n't 
expect,"  the  latter  went  on,  "to  meet  you  so  far  from 
-  from  the  Cafe  de  la  Patrie."  He  remained  silent, 
but  decidedly  Newman  had  touched  the  source  of 
tears.  His  neighbour  sat  staring  and  he  added: 
"What's  the  matter,  M.  Nioche?  You  used  to  talk, 
talk  very  —  what  did  you  call  it  ?  —  very  gentiment. 
Don't  you  remember  you  even  gave  lessons  in  con- 
versation?" 


THE  AMERICAN 

At  this  M.  Nioche  decided  to  change  his  attitude. 
He  stooped  and  picked  up  the  pug,  lifted  it  to  his 
face  and  wiped  his  eyes  on  its  little  soft  back.  "I'm 
afraid  to  speak  to  you,"  he  presently  said,  looking 
over  the  puppy's  shoulder.  "I  hoped  you  would  n't 
notice  me.  I  should  have  moved  away,  but  I  was 
afraid  that  if  I  moved  it  would  strike  you.  So  I  sat 
very  still." 

"I  suspect  you've  a  bad  conscience,  sir,"  Newman 
pronounced. 

The  old  man  put  down  the  little  dog  and  held  it 
carefully  in  his  lap.  Then  he  shook  his  head,  his 
eyes  still  watering  and  pleading.  "No,  Mr.  Newman, 
I  've  a  good  conscience,"  he  weakly  wailed. 

"Then  why  should  you  want  to  slink  away  from 
me?" 

"  Because  —  because  you  don't  understand  my 
position." 

"Oh,  I  think  you  once  explained  it  to  me,"  said 
Newman.  "But  it  seems  improved." 

"Improved!"  his  companion  quavered.  "Do  you 
call  this  improvement?"  And  he  ruefully  embraced 
the  treasures  in  his  arms. 

"Why.  you're  on  your  travels,"  Newman  rejoined. 
"  A  visit  to  London  in  the  Season  is  certainly  a  sign 
of  prosperity." 

M.  Nioche,  in  answer  to  this  superior  dig,  lifted 
the  puppy  up  to  his  face  again,  peering  at  his  critic 
from  his  small  blank  eye-holes.  There  was  something 
inane  in  the  movement,  and  Newman  hardly  knew  if 
he  were  taking  refuge  in  an  affected  failure  of  reason 
or  whether  he  had  in  fact  paid  for  his  base  accommo- 

519 


THE  AMERICAN 

datum  by  the  loss  of  his  wits.  In  the  latter  case,  just 
now,  he  felt  little  more  tenderly  to  the  foolish  old  man 
than  in  the  former.  Responsible  or  not,  he  was 
equally  an  accomplice  of  his  pestilent  daughter. 
Newman  was  going  to  leave  him  abruptly  when  his 
face  gave  out  a  peculiar  convulsion.  "Are  you  going 
away?"  he  appealed. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  stay  ?" 

"  I  should  have  left  you — from  consideration.  But 
my  dignity  suffers  at  your  leaving  me  —  that  way." 

"Have  you  anything  particular  to  say  to  me  ?" 

M.  Nioche  looked  round  to  see  no  one  was  listen- 
ing, and  then  returned  with  mild  portentousness :  "Je 
ne  lui  ai  pas  trouve  d'excuses." 

Newman  gave  a  short  laugh,  but  the  old  man 
seemed  for  the  moment  not  to  heed;  he  was  gazing 
away,  absently,  at  some  metaphysical  image  of  his 
implacability.  "  It  does  n't  much  matter  whether  you 
have  or  not,"  said  Newman.  "There  are  other  people 
who  never  will,  I  assure  you." 

"What  has  she  done?"  M.  Nioche  vaguely  en- 
quired, turning  round  again.  "I  don't  know  what 
she  does,  you  know." 

"She  has  done  a  devilish  mischief;  it  does  n't 
matter  what.  She's  a  public  nuisance;  she  ought  to 
be  stopped." 

M.  Nioche  stealthily  put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it 
on  Newman's  arm.  "Stopped,  yes,"  he  concurred. 
"That's  it.  Stopped  short.  She's  running  away  — 
she  must  be  stopped."  Then  he  paused  and  again 
looked  round  him.  "I  mean  to  stop  her,"  he  went 
on.  "  I  'm  only  waiting  for  my  chance." 

520 


THE  AMERICAN 

"1  see,"  Newman  dryly  enough  laughed.  "She's 
running  away  and  you're  running  after  her.  You've 
run  a  long  distance." 

But  M.  Nioche  had  a  competent  upward  nod, 
"Oh,  I  know  what  to  do!" 

He  had  hardly  spoken  when  the  crowd  in  front  of 
them  separated  as  if  by  the  impulse  to  make  way  for 
an  important  personage.  Presently,  through  the  open- 
ing, advanced  Mademoiselle  Nioche,  attended  by 
the  gentleman  Newman  had  lately  observed.  His 
face  being  now  presented  to  our  hero,  the  latter  re- 
cognised the  irregular  features  and  the  hardly  more 
composed  expression  of  Lord  Deepmere.  Noemie,  on 
finding  herself  suddenly  confronted  with  Newman, 
who,  like  M.  Nioche,  had  risen  from  his  seat,  faltered 
for  a  barely  perceptible  instant.  She  gave  him  a  little 
nod,  as  if  she  had  seen  him  yesterday,  and  then,  with- 
out agitation,  "Tiens,  how  we  keep  meeting!"  she 
sweetly  shrilled.  She  looked  consummately  pretty 
and  the  front  of  her  dress  was  a  wonderful  work 
of  art.  She  went  up  to  her  father,  stretching  out 
her  hands  for  the  little  dog,  which  he  submissively 
placed  in  them,  and  she  began  to  kiss  it  and  mur- 
mur over  it:  "To  think  of  leaving  him  all  alone,  mon 
bichon  —  what  a  horrid  false  friend  he  must  believe 
me!  He  has  been  very  unwell,"  she  added,  turning 
and  affecting  to  explain  to  Newman,  a  spark  of  infer- 
nal impudence,  fine  as  a  needle-point,  lighted  in  each 
charming  eye.  "I  don't  think  the  English  climate 
does  for  him." 

"  It  seems  to  do  wonderfully  well  for  his  mistress," 
Newman  said. 

521 


THE  AMERICAN 

"  Do  you  mean  me  ?  I  've  never  been  better,  thank 
you,"  Miss  Noemie  declared.  "But  with  milord," 
and  she  gave  a  shining  shot  at  her  late  companion, 
"how  can  one  help  being  well  ?"  She  seated  herself 
in  the  chair  from  which  her  father  had  risen  and 
began  to  arrange  the  little  dog's  rosette. 

Lord  Deepmere  carried  off  such  embarrassment  as 
might  be  incidental  to  this  unexpected  encounter  with 
the  inferior  grace  of  a  male  and  a  Briton.  He  blushed 
a  good  deal  and  greeted  his  fellow-candidate  in  that 
recent  remarkable  competition  by  which  each  had  so 
signally  failed  to  profit  with  an  awkward  nod  and 
a  rapid  ejaculation  —  an  ejaculation  to  which  New- 
man, who  often  found  it  hard  to  understand  the 
speech  of  English  people,  was  able  to  attach  no  mean- 
ing. Then  he  stood  there  with  his  hand  on  his  hip 
and  with  a  conscious  grin,  staring  askance  at  the  mis- 
tress of  the  invalid  pug.  Suddenly  an  idea  seemed  to 
strike  him  and  he  caught  at  the  light.  "Oh,  you 
know  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Newman,  "I  know  her.  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  do." 

"Oh  dear,  yes,  I  do!"  —  Lord  Deepmere  was  sure 
of  that.  "  I  knew  her  in  Paris  —  by  my  late  cousin 
Bellegarde,  you  know.  He  knew  her,  poor  fellow, 
did  n't  he  ?  It  was  she,  you  know,  who  was  at  the 
bottom  of  his  affair.  Awfully  sad,  wasn't  it?"  the 
young  man  continued,  talking  off  his  embarrassment 
as  his  simple  nature  permitted.  "They  got  up  some 
story  of  its  being  for  the  Pope;  of  the  other  fellow 
having  said  something  against  the  Pope's  morals. 
They  always  do  that,  you  know.  They  put  it  on  the 

522 


THE  AMERICAN 

Pope  because  Bellegarde  was  once  in  the  Zouaves. 
But  it  was  about  her  morals —  she  was  the  Pope!" 
his  lordship  pursued,  directing  an  eye  illumined  by 
this  pleasantry  toward  Mademoiselle  Nioche,  who, 
bending  gracefully  over  her  lap-dog,  was  apparently 
absorbed  in  conversation  with  it.  "I  dare  say  you 
think  it  rather  odd  that  I  should  —  a  —  keep  up  the 
acquaintance,"  he  resumed;  "but  she  could  n't  help 
it,  you  know,  and  Bellegarde  was  only  my  twentieth 
cousin.  I  dare  say  you  think  it  rather  cheeky  my 
showing  with  her  in  this  place;  but  you  see  she  is  n't 
known  yet  and  she's  so  remarkably,  thoroughly 
nice —  !"  With  which  his  attesting  glance  returned 
to  the  young  lady. 

Newman  turned  away;  he  was  having  too  much  of 
her  niceness.  M.  Nioche  had  stepped  aside  on  his 
daughter's  approach,  and  he  stood  there,  within 
a  very  small  compass,  looking  down  hard  at  the 
ground.  It  had  decidedly  never  yet,  as  between  him 
and  his  late  protector,  been  so  apposite  to  place  on 
record  that,  for  his  vindication,  he  was  only  waiting 
to  strike.  As  Newman  turned  off  he  felt  himself  held, 
and,  seeing  the  old  man,  who  had  drawn  so  near, 
had  something  particular  to  say,  bent  his  head  an 
instant: 

"You'll  see  it  some  day  dans  les  feuilles." 
Our  hero  broke  away,  for  impatience  of  the  whole 
connexion,  and  to  this  day,  though  the  newspapers 
form  his  principal  reading,  his  eyes  have  not  been 
arrested  by  any  paragraph  forming  a  sequel  to  this 
announcement. 


XXVI 

IN  that  uninitiated  observation  of  the  great  spectacle 
of  English  life  on  which  I  have  touched,  it  might  be 
supposed  that  he  passed  a  great  many  dull  days. 
But  the  dulness  was  as  grateful  as  a  warm,  fra- 
grant bath,  and  his  melancholy,  which  was  settling  to 
a  secondary  stage,  like  a  healing  wound,  had  in  it  a 
certain  acrid,  palatable  sweetness.  He  had  the  com- 
pany of  his  thoughts  and  for  the  present  wanted  none 
other.  He  had  no  desire  to  make  acquaintances  and 
left  untouched  a  couple  of  notes  of  introduction  sent 
him  by  Tom  Tristram.  He  mused  a  great  deal  on 
Madame  de  Cintre  —  sometimes  with  a  dull  despair 
that  might  have  seemed  a  near  neighbour  to  detach- 
ment. He  lived  over  again  the  happiest  hours  he  had 
known  —  that  silver  chain  of  numbered  days  in 
which  his  afternoon  visits,  strained  so  sensibly  to  the 
ideal  end,  had  come  to  figure  for  him  a  flight  of  firm 
marble  steps  where  the  ascent  from  one  to  the  other 
was  a  momentous  and  distinct  occasion,  giving  a 
nearer  view  of  the  chamber  of  confidence  at  the  top. 
a  white  tower  that  flushed  more  and  more  as  with  a 
light  of  dawn.  He  had  yet  held  in  his  cheated  arms, 
he  felt,  the  full  experience,  and  when  he  closed  them 
together  round  the  void  that  was  all  they  now  pos- 
sessed, he  might  have  been  some  solitary  spare  ath- 
lete practising  restlessly  in  the  corridor  of  the  circus. 
He  came  back  to  reality  indeed,  after  such  reveries, 

524 


THE  AMERICAN 

with  a  shock  somewhat  muffled;  he  had  begun  to 
know  the  need  of  accepting  the  absolute.  At  other 
times,  however,  the  truth  was  again  an  infamy  and 
the  actual  a  lie,  and  he  could  only  pace  and  rage 
and  remember  till  he  was  weary.  Passion,  in  him,  by 
habit,  nevertheless,  burned  clear  rather  than  thick, 
and  in  the  clearness  he  saw  things,  even  things  not 
gross  and  close  —  having  never  the  excuse  that  any- 
thing could  make  him  blind.  Without  quite  knowing 
it  at  first,  he  began  to  read  a  moral  into  his  strange 
adventure.  He  asked  himself  in  his  quieter  hours 
whether  he  perhaps  had  been  more  commercial  than 
was  decent.  We  know  that  it  was  in  reaction  against 
questions  of  the  cruder  avidity  that  he  had  come  out 
to  pick  up  for  a  while  an  intellectual,  or  otherwise 
a  critical,  living  in  Europe;  it  may  therefore  be  under- 
stood that  he  was  able  to  conceive  of  a  votary  of  the 
mere  greasy  market  smelling  too  strong  for  true  good 
company.  He  was  willing  to  grant  in  a  given  case 
that  unpleasant  effect,  but  he  could  n't  bring  it  home 
to  himself  that  he  had  reeked.  He  believed  there  had 
been  as  few  reflexions  of  his  smugness  caught  during 
all  those  weeks  in  the  high  polish  of  surrounding 
surfaces  as  there  were  monuments  of  his  meanness 
scattered  about  the  world.  No  one  had  ever  unpro- 
vokedly  suffered  by  him  —  ah,  provokedly  was  an- 
other matter:  he  liked  to  remember  that,  and  to 
repeat  it,  and  to  defy  himself  to  bring  up  a  case. 

If  moreover  there  was  any  reason  in  the  nature  of 
things  why  his  connexion  with  business  should  have 
cast  a  shadow  on  a  connexion  —  even  a  connexion 
broken  —  with  a  woman  justly  proud,  he  was  willing 

525 


THE  AMERICAN 

to  sponge  it  out  of  his  life  for  ever.  The  thing  seemed 
a  possibility;  he  could  n't  feel  it  doubtless  as  keenly 
as  some  people,  and  it  scarce  struck  him  as  worth 
while  to  flap  his  wings  very  hard  to  rise  to  the  idea; 
but  he  could  feel  it  enough  to  make  any  sacrifice  that 
still  remained  to  be  made.  As  to  what  such  sacrifice 
was  now  to  be  made  to,  here  he  stopped  short  before 
a  blank  wall  over  which  there  sometimes  played 
strange  shadows  and  confused  signs.  Was  it  a  think- 
able plan,that  of  carrying  out  his  life  as  he  would  have 
directed  had  Madame  de  Cintre  been  left  to  him  ?  — 
that  of  making  it  a  religion  to  do  nothing  she  would 
have  disliked  ?  In  this  certainly  was  no  sacrifice;  but 
there  was  a  pale,  oblique  ray  of  inspiration.  It  would  be 
lonely  entertainment  —  a  good  deal  like  a  man's  talk- 
ing to  himself  in  the  mirror  for  want  of  better  com- 
pany. Yet  the  idea  yielded  him  several  half-hours' 
dumb  exaltation  as  he  sat,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
his  legs  outstretched,  over  the  relics  of  an  expensively 
bad  dinner,  in  the  undying  English  twilight.  If, 
however,  his  financial  imagination  was  dead  he  felt 
no  contempt  for  the  surviving  actualities  begotten 
by  it.  He  was  glad  he  had  been  prosperous  and  had 
been  a  great  operator  rather  than  a  small;  he  was 
extremely  glad  he  was  rich.  He  felt  no  impulse  to 
sell  all  he  had  and  give  to  the  poor,  or  to  retire  into 
meditative  economy  and  asceticism.  He  was  glad  he 
was  rich  and  tolerably  young;  if  it  was  possible  to 
have  inhaled  too  fondly  the  reek  of  the  market,  it 
was  yet  a  gain  still  to  have  time  for  experiments  in 
other  air.  Come  then,  what  air  should  it  now  be  ? 
Ah,  again  and  again,  he  could  taste  but  one  sweet- 

526 


THE  AMERICAN 

ness;  that  came  back  to  him  and  back;  and  as  this 
happened,  with  a  force  which  seemed  physically  to 
express  itself  in  a  sudden  upward  choking,  he  would 
lean  forward,  when  the  waiter  had  left  the  room,  and, 
resting  his  arms  on  the  table,  bury  his  troubled  face. 
He  remained  in  England  till  midsummer  and  spent 
a  month  in  the  country,  wandering  among  cathedrals, 
hanging  about  castles  and  ruins.  Several  times,  tak- 
ing a  walk  from  his  inn  across  sweet  field-paths  and 
through  ample  parks,  he  stopped  by  a  well-worn  stile, 
looked  across  through  the  early  evening  at  a  grey 
church  tower,  with  its  dusky  nimbus  of  thick-circling 
rooks,  and  remembered  that  such  things  might 
have  been  part  of  the  intimacy  of  his  honeymoon. 
He  had  never  been  so  much  alone  nor  indulged  so 
little  in  chance  talk.  The  period  of  recreation  ap- 
pointed by  Mrs.  Tristram  had  at  last  expired  and  he 
asked  himself  what  he  should  next  do.  She  had 
written  to  propose  he  should  join  her  in  the  Pyre- 
nees, but  he  was  not  in  the  humour  to  return  to 
France.  The  simplest  thing  was  to  repair  to  Liver- 
pool and  embark  on  the  first  American  steamer.  He 
proceeded  accordingly  to  that  seaport  and  secured 
his  berth;  and  the  night  before  sailing  he  sat  in  his 
room  at  the  hotel  and  stared  down  vacantly  arid 
wearily  at  an  open  portmanteau.  A  number  of  papers 
lay  upon  it,  which  he  had  been  meaning  to  look  over; 
some  of  them  might  conveniently  be  destroyed.  But 
he  at  last  shuffled  them  roughly  together  and  pushed 
them  into  a  corner  of  the  bag;  they  were  business 
papers  and  he  was  in  no  humour  for  sorting  them. 
Then  he  drew  forth  his  pocket-book  and  took  out 

527 


THE  AMERICAN 

a  leaf  of  smaller  size  than  those  he  had  dismissed. 
He  did  n't  unfold  it;  he  simply  sat  looking  at  the  back 
of  it.  If  he  had  momentarily  entertained  the  idea  of 
destroying  it  this  possibility  at  least  quickly  dropped. 
What  the  thing  suggested  was  the  feeling  that  lay  in 
his  innermost  heart  and  that  no  reviving  cheerfulness 
could  long  quench  —  the  feeling  that,  after  all  and 
above  all,  he  was  a  good  fellow  wronged.  With  it 
came  a  hope,  as  intense  as  a  pang,  that  the  Belle- 
gardes  were  enjoying  their  suspense  as  to  what  he 
would  do  yet.  The  more  it  was  prolonged  the  more 
they  would  enjoy  it.  He  had  hung  fire  once,  yes; 
perhaps  in  his  present  queer  state  of  mind  he  might 
hang  fire  again.  But  he  restored  the  safe  scrap  to  his 
pocket-book  very  tenderly  and  felt  better  for  thinking 
of  the  suspense  of  the  Bellegardes.  He  felt  better 
every  time  he  thought  of  it  while  he  sailed  the  summer 
seas.  He  landed  in  New  York  and  journeyed  across 
the  continent  to  San  Francisco,  and  nothing  he  ob- 
served by  the  way  contributed  to  mitigate  his  sense 
of  being  a  good  fellow  wronged. 

He  saw  a  great  many  other  good  fellows  —  his  old 
friends  —  but  he  told  none  of  them  of  the  trick  that 
had  been  played  him.  He  said  simply  that  the  lady 
he  was  to  have  married  had  changed  her  mind,  and 
when  asked  if  he  had  changed  his  own  inscrutably 
answered, "Suppose  we  change  the  subject."  He  told 
his  friends  he  had  brought  home  no  "new  ideas" 
from  Europe,  and  his  conduct  probably  struck  them 
as  an  eloquent  proof  of  failing  invention.  He  took  no 
interest  in  discussing  business  and  showed  no  desire 
to  go  into  anything  whatever.  He  asked  half  a  dozen 

528 


THE  AMERICAN 

questions  which,  like  those  of  an  eminent  physician 
enquiring  for  particular  symptoms,  proved  he  was 
master  of  his  subject;  but  he  made  no  comments  and 
gave  no  directions.  He  not  only  puzzled  all  the  promi- 
nent men,  but  was  himself  surprised  at  the  extent  of 
his  indifference.  As  it  seemed  only  to  increase  he  made 
an  effort  to  combat  it;  he  tried  to  take  hold  and  to 
recover,  as  they  said,  his  spring.  But  the  ground  was 
inelastic  and  the  issues  dead;  do  what  he  would  he 
somehow  could  n't  believe  in  them.  Sometimes  he 
began  to  fear  there  was  something  the  matter  with 
him,  that  he  had  suffered,  unwitting,  some  small 
horrid  cerebral  lesion  or  nervous  accident,  and  that 
the  end  of  his  strong  activities  had  come.  This  idea 
for  a  while  hung  about  him  and  haunted  him.  A 
hopeless,  helpless  loafer,  useful  to  no  one  and  detest- 
able to  himself  —  this  was  what  the  treachery  of  the 
Bellegardes  had  made  of  him.  In  his  anxious  idle- 
ness he  came  back  from  San  Francisco  to  New  York, 
where  he  sat  for  three  days  in  the  lobby  of  his  hotel 
and  looked  out  through  a  huge  wall  of  plate  glass  at 
the  unceasing  stream  of  pretty  girls  who  wore  their 
clothes  as  with  the  American  accent  and  undulated 
past  with  little  parcels  nursed  against  their  neat 
figures.  At  the  end  of  three  days  he  returned  to  San 
Francisco  and,  having  arrived  there,  wished  he  had 
stayed  away.  He  had  nothing  to  do,  his  occupation 
had  gone,  had  simply  strayed  and  lost  itself  in  the 
great  desert  of  life.  He  had  nothing  to  do  herey  he 
sometimes  said  to  himself;  but  there  was  something 
beyond  the  ocean  he  was  still  to  do;  something  he 
had  left  undone  experimentally  and  speculativeiy,  to 

529 


THE  AMERICAN 

see  if  it  could  content  itself  to  remain  undone.  Well, 
clearly,  it  could  n't  content  itself;  it  kept  pulling  at 
his  heartstrings  and  thumping  at  his  reason;  it  mur- 
mured in  his  ears  and  hovered  perpetually  before 
his  eyes.  It  interposed  between  all  new  resolutions 
and  their  fulfilment;  it  was  a  stubborn  ghost  dumbly 
entreating  to  be  laid.  On  the  doing  of  that  all  other 
doing  depended. 

One  day  toward  the  end  of  the  winter,  after  a<long 
interval,  he  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Tristram,  who 
appeared  to  have  been  moved  by  a  charitable  desire 
to  amuse  and  distract  her  correspondent.  She  gave 
him  much  Paris  gossip,  talked  of  General  Packard 
and  Miss  Kitty  Upjohn,  enumerated  the  new  plays 
at  the  theatres  and  enclosed  a  note  from  her  hus- 
band, who  had  gone  down  to  spend  a  month  at 
Nice.  Then  came  her  signature  and  after  this  her 
postscript.  The  latter  consisted  of  these  few  lines: 
"I  heard  three  days  since  from  my  friend  the 
Abbe  Aubert  that  Claire  de  Cintre  last  week  re- 
ceived the  veil  at  the  Carmelites.  It  was  on  her 
twenty-ninth  birthday,  and  she  took  the  name  of 
her  patroness,  Saint  Veronica.  Sceur  Veronique  has 
a  lifetime  before  her!" 

This  letter  reached  him  in  the  morning;  in  the 
evening  he  started  for  Paris.  His  wound  began  to 
ache  with  its  first  fierceness,  and  during  his  long  bleak 
journey  he  had  no  company  but  the  thought  of  the 
new  Sister's  "lifetime"  —  every  one's  sister  but  his! 
1 —  passed  within  walls  on  whose  outer  side  only  he 
might  stand.  Well,  for  that  station  he  would  live,  if 
it  was  to  be  spoken  of  as  life;  he  would  fix  himself  in 

53° 


THE  AMERICAN 

Paris;  he  would  wring  a  hard  happiness  from  the 
knowledge  that  if  she  was  not  there  at  least  the  stony 
sepulchre  that  held  her  was.  He  descended,  unan- 
nounced, on  Mrs.  Bread,  whom  he  found  keeping 
lonely  watch  in  his  great  empty  saloons  on  the  Boule- 
vard Haussmann.  They  were  as  neat  as  a  Dutch 
village;  Mrs.  Bread's  only  occupation  had  been  re- 
moving individual  dust-particles.  She  made  no  com- 
plaint, however,  of  her  solitude,  for  in  her  philosophy 
a  servant  was  but  a  machine  constructed  for  the  bene- 
fit of  some  supreme  patentee,  and  it  would  be  as  fan- 
tastic for  a  housekeeper  to  comment  on  a  gentleman's 
absences  as  for  a  clock  to  remark  on  not  being  wound 
up.  No  particular  clock,  Mrs.  Bread  supposed,  kept 
all  the  time,  and  no  particular  servant  could  enjoy  all 
the  sunshine  diffused  by  the  career  of  a  universal 
master.  She  ventured  nevertheless  to  express  a 
modest  hope  that  Newman  meant  to  remain  a  while 
in  Paris.  He  laid  his  hand  on  hers  and  shook  it 
gently.  "I  mean  to  remain  for  ever." 

He  went  after  this  to  see  Mrs.  Tristram,  to  whom 
he  had  telegraphed  and  who  expected  him.  She 
looked  at  him  a  moment  and  shook  her  head.  "This 
won't  do,"  she  said;  "you've  come  back  too  soon." 
He  sat  down  and  asked  about  her  husband  and  her 
children,  enquired  even  for  news  of  Miss  Dora  Finch. 
In  the  midst  of  this,  "Do  you  know  where  she  is  3" 
he  abruptly  demanded. 

Mrs.  Tristram  hesitated;  of  course  he  couldn't 
mean  Miss  Dora  Finch.  Then  she  answered  pro- 
perly: "She  has  gone  to  the  other  house — in  the  Rue 
<J'Enfer."  But  after  he  had  gloomed  a  little  longer 

531 


THE  AMERICAN 

she  went  on:  "You're  not  so  good  a  man  as  I  thought. 
You're  more  —  you're  more  — " 

"More  what?" 

"More  unreconciled." 

"Good  God!"  he  cried;  "do  you  expect  me  to  for* 
give?" 

"No,  not  that.  I've  not  forgiven,  so  of  course  you 
can't.  But  you  might  magnificently  forget.  You've 
a  worse  temper  about  it  than  I  should  have  expected. 
You  look  wicked  —  you  look  dangerous." 

"I  may  be  dangerous,"  he  said;  "but  I'm  not 
wicked.  No,  I'm  not  wicked."  And  he  got  up  to  go. 
She  asked  him  to  come  back  to  dinner,  but  he  an- 
swered that  he  could  n't  face  a  convivial  occasion, 
even  as  a  solitary  guest.  Later  in  the  evening,  if  he 
should  be  able,  he  would  look  in. 

He  walked  away  through  the  city,  beside  the  Seine 
and  over  it,  and  took  the  direction  of  the  Rue  d'Enfer. 
The  day  had  the  softness  of  early  spring,  but  the 
weather  was  grey  and  humid.  He  found  himself  in 
a  part  of  Paris  that  he  little  knew  —  a  region  of  con- 
vents and  prisons,  of  streets  bordered  by  long  dead 
walls  and  traversed  by  few  frequenters.  At  the  inter- 
section of  two  of  these  streets  stood  the  house  of  the 
Carmelites  —  a  dull,  plain  edifice  with  a  blank,  high- 
shouldered  defence  all  round.  From  without  he  could 
see  its  upper  windows,  its  steep  roof  and  its  chimneys. 
But  these  things  revealed  no  symptoms  of  human  life; 
the  place  looked  dumb,  deaf,  inanimate.  The  pale, 
dead,  discoloured  wall  stretched  beneath  it  far  down 
the  empty  side-street  —  a  vista  without  a  human 
figure.  He  stood  there  a  long  time;  there  were  no 

532 


THE  AMERICAN 

passers;  he  was  free  to  gaze  his  fill.  This  seemed  the 
goal  of  his  journey;  it  was  all  he  had  come  for.  It  was 
a  strange  satisfaction  too,  and  yet  it  was  a  satisfac- 
tion; the  barren  stillness  of  the  place  represented 
somehow  his  own  release  from  ineffectual  desire.  It 
told  him  the  woman  within  was  lost  beyond  recall, 
and  that  the  days  and  years  of  the  future  would  pile 
themselves  above  her  like  the  huge  immoveable  slab 
of  a  tomb.  These  days  and  years,  on  this  spot, 
would  always  be  just  so  grey  and  silent.  Suddenly 
from  the  thought  of  their  seeing  him  stand  there  again 
the  charm  utterly  departed.  He  would  never  stand 
there  again;  it  was  a  sacrifice  as  sterile  as  her  own. 
He  turned  away  with  a  heavy  heart,  yet  more  dis- 
burdened than  he  had  come. 

Everything  was  over  and  he  too  at  last  could  rest. 
He  walked  back  through  narrow,  winding  streets  to 
the  edge  of  the  Seine  and  there  he  saw,  close  above 
him,  high  and  mild  and  grey,  the  twin  towers  of 
Notre  Dame.  He  crossed  one  of  the  bridges  and 
paused  in  the  voided  space  that  makes  the  great 
front  clear;  then  he  went  in  beneath  the  grossly- 
imaged  portals.  He  wandered  some  distance  up  the 
nave  and  sat  down  in  the  splendid  dimness.  He  sat 
a  long  time;  he  heard  far-away  bells  chiming  off  into 
space,  at  long  intervals,  the  big  bronze  syllables  of 
the  Word.  He  was  very  tired,  but  such  a  place  was 
a  kingdom  of  rest.  He  said  no  prayers;  he  had  no 
prayers  to  say  He  had  nothing  to  be  thankful  for 
and  he  had  nothing  to  ask;  nothing  to  ask  because 
now  he  must  take  care  of  himself.  But  a  great  church 
offers  a  very  various  hospitality,  and  he  kept  his 

533 


THE  AMERICAN 

place  because  while  he  was  there  he  was  out  of  the 
world.  The  most  unpleasant  thing  that  had  ever 
happened  to  him  had  reached  its  formal  conclusion; 
he  had  learnt  his  lesson  —  not  indeed  that  he  the 
least  understood  it  —  and  could  put  away  the  book. 
He  leaned  his  head  for  a  long  time  on  the  chair  in 
front  of  him;  when  he  took  it  up  he  felt  he  was  him- 
self again.  Somewhere  in  his  soul  a  tight  constric- 
tion had  loosened.  He  thought  of  the  Bellegardes; 
he  had  almost  forgotten  them.  He  remembered 
them  as  people  he  had  meant  to  do  something  to. 
He  gave  a  groan  as  he  remembered  what  he  had 
meant  to  do;  he  was  annoyed,  and  yet  partly  incred- 
ulous, at  his  having  meant  to  do  it:  the  bottom  sud- 
denly had  fallen  out  of  his  revenge.  Whether  it  was 
Christian  charity  or  mere  human  weakness  of  will  — 
what  it  was,  in  the  background  of  his  spirit  —  I  don't 
nretend  to  say;  but  Newman's  last  thought  was  that 
of  course  he  would  let  the  Bellegardes  go.  If  he  had 
spoken  it  aloud  he  would  have  said  he  did  n't  want 
to  hurt  them.  He  was  ashamed  of  having  wanted  to 
hurt  them.  He  quite  failed,  of  a  sudden,  to  recognise 
the  fact  of  his  having  cultivated  any  such  link  with 
them.  It  was  a  link  for  themselves  perhaps,  their 
having  so  hurt  him;  but  that  side  of  it  was  now  not 
his  affair.  At  last  he  got  up  and  came  out  of  the 
darkening  church;  not  with  the  elastic  step  of  a  man 
who  has  won  a  victory  or  taken  a  resolve  —  rather  to 
the  quiet  measure  of  a  discreet  escape,  of  a  retreat 
with  appearances  preserved. 

Going  home,  he  said  to  Mrs.  Bread  that  he  must 
trouble  her  to  put  back  his   things  into  the  port- 

534 


THE  AMERICAN 

manteau  she  had  unpacked  the  evening  before.  It 
was  therefore  as  if  she  had  looked  at  him  on  this, 
through  bedimmed  eyes,  with  the  consciousness  of 
a  value,  so  far  as  she  could  see,  quite  extravagantly 
wasted.  "Dear  me,  sir,  I  thought  you  said  you  were 
going  to  stay  for  ever." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  omitted  a  word.  I  meant  I'm 
going  to  stay  away  for  ever,"  he  was  obliged  a  little 
awkwardly  to  explain.  And  since  his  departure  from 
Paris  on  the  following  day  he  has  certainly  not  re- 
turned. The  gilded  apartments  I  have  so  often 
spoken  of  stand  ready  to  receive  him,  but  they  serve 
only  as  a  spacious  setting  for  Mrs.  Bread's  solitary 
straightness,  which  wanders  eternally  from  room  to 
room,  adjusting  the  tassels  of  the  curtains,  and  keeps 
its  wages,  which  are  regularly  brought  in  by  a 
banker's  clerk,  in  a  great  pink  Sevres  vase  on  the 
drawing-room  mantel-shelf. 

Late  in  the  evening  Newman  went  to  Mrs.  Tris* 
tram's  and  found  the  more  jovial  member  of  the  pair 
by  the  domestic  fireside.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  back 
in  Paris,"  this  gentleman  declared,  "  for,  you  know, 
it's  really  the  only  place  for  a  white  man  to  live." 
Mr.  Tristram  made  his  friend  welcome  according  to 
his  own  rosy  light,  and  repaired  in  five  minutes,  with 
a  free  tongue,  the  too  visible  and  too  innocent  de- 
ficiencies in  Newman's  acquaintance  with  current 
history.  Then,  having  caused  him  to  gape  with 
strange  information  —  all  as  to  what  had  been  going 
on  in  "noire  monde  a  nous,  you  know"  —  Tristram 
got  up  to  go  and  renew  his  budget  at  the  club. 

To  this  Newman  replied  that  Mrs.  Tristram  was 

535 


THE  AMERICAN 

fits  club  and  that  he  had  never  wanted  a  better:  a 
statement  he  felt  the  truth  of  when  he  was  presently 
alone  with  her  and  even  —  or  perhaps  all  the  more 
—  when  she  asked  him  what  he  had  done  on  leaving 
her  in  the  afternoon.  "Well,"  he  then  replied,  "I 
worked  it  off." 

"Worked  off  the  afternoon  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  a  lot  of  other  troublesome  stuff." 

"You  struck  me,"  she  confessed,  "as  a  man  filled 
with  some  rather  uncanny  idea.  I  wondered  if  I  were 
right  to  leave  you  so  the  prey  of  it,  and  whether  I 
ought  n't  to  have  had  you  followed  and  watched." 

This  appeared  to  strike  him  with  surprise.  "  Surely 
I  did  n't  look  as  if  I  wanted  to  take  life." 

"  I  might  have  feared,  if  I  had  let  myself  go  a  little, 
that  you  were  thinking  of  taking  your  own." 

He  breathed  a  long  sigh  of  such  apparent  indiffer- 
ence to  his  own  as  would  have  ruled  that  out. 
"Well,"  he  none  the  less  after  a  moment  went  on, 
"I  have  got  rid  of  about  nine  tenths  of  something 
that  had  become  the  biggest  part  of  me.  But  I  did 
that  only  by  walking  over  to  the  Rue  d'Enfer." 

"You've  been  then,"  she  stared,  "at  the  Carmel- 
ites ?"  And  as  he  only  met  her  eyes:  "Trying  to 
scale  the  wall  ?" 

"  Well,  I  thought  of  that  —  I  measured  the  wall. 
I  looked  at  it  a  long  time.  But  it's  too  high  —  it'f 
beyond  me." 

"That's  right,"  she  said.   "Give  it  up." 

"I  have  given  it  up.  But  on  the  spot  there  I  took 
it  all  in." 

She  rested  now  her  kindest  eyes  on  him.    "On  the 

536 


THE  AMERICAN 

spot  then  you  did  n't  happen  to  meet  M.  de  Belle- 
garde —  also  taking  it  all  in?  I'm  told  his  sister's 
course  does  n't  suit  him  the  least  little  bit." 

Newman  had  a  moment's  gravity  of  silence.  "No, 
luckily  —  I  did  n't  meet  either  of  them.  In  that  case 
1  might  have  fired." 

"Ah,  it  is  n't  that  they've  not  been  keeping  quiet," 
she  said;  "I  mean  in  the  country,  at  —  what's  the 
name  of  the  place  ?  —  Fleurieres.  They  returned 
there  at  the  time  you  left  Paris,  and  have  been  spend- 
ing the  year  far  from  human  eye.  The  little  Marquise 
must  enjoy  it;  I  expect  to  hear  she  has  eloped  with  her 
daughter's  music-master!" 

Newman  had  gazed  at  the  light  wood-fire,  and  he 
listened  to  this  with  an  apparent  admission  of  its 
relevance;  but  he  spoke  in  another  sense.  "I  mean 
never  to  mention  the  name  of  those  people  again  and 
I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  more  about  them." 
Then  he  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  drew  forth 
a  scrap  of  paper.  He  looked  at  it  an  instant,  after 
"vhich  he  got  up  and  stood  by  the  fire.  "I'm  going 
to  burn  them  up.  I'm  glad  to  have  you  as  a  witness. 
There  they  go!"  And  he  tossed  the  paper  into  the 
flame. 

Mrs.  Tristram  sat  with  her  embroidery-needle  sus- 
pended. "What  in  the  world  is  that  ?" 

Leaning  against  the  chimney-piece  he  seemed  to 
grasp  its  ledge  with  force  and  to  draw  his  breath 
a  while  in  pain.  But  presently  he  said:  "I  can  tell 
you  now.  It  was  a  proof  of  a  great  infamy  on  the  part 
of  the  Bellegardes — something  that  would  damn 
them  if  ever  knowti." 

537 


THE  AMERICAN 

She  dropped  her  work  with  a  reproachful  moan. 
"Ah,  why  did  n't  you  show  it  to  me  ?" 

"  I  thought  of  showing  it  to  you  — - 1  thought  of 
showing  it  to  every  one.  I  thought  of  paying  my  debt 
to  them  that  way.  So  I  told  them,  and  I  guess  I  made 
them  squirm.  If  they've  been  lying  low  it's  because 
they  have  n't  known  what  may  happen.  But,  as  I  say, 
I've  given  up  my  idea." 

Mrs.  Tristram  began  to  take  slow  stitches  again. 
"Wholly  renounced  it?" 

"Wholly  renounced  it." 

"But  your  'proof,'"  she  went  on  after  a  moment, 
"what  was  it  a  proof  o/?" 

"Oh,  of  an  abomination  not  otherwise  known." 

"An  abomination  ?" 

"An  abomination." 

She  hesitated  but  briefly.  "Something  too  bad  to 
tell  me?" 

He  considered.    "Yes,  not  good  enough  now." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I'm  sorry  to  have  lost  it.  Your 
document,"  she  smiled,  "did  n't  look  like  much,  but 
I  should  have  liked  immensely  to  see  it.  They've 
wronged  me  too,  you  know,  as  your  sponsor  and 
guarantee,  and  it  would  have  served  my  revenge  as 
well!  How  did  you  come,"  she  then  asked,  "into 
possession  of  your  knowledge  ?" 

"It's  a  long  story.    But  honestly  at  any  rate." 

"And  they  knew  you  were  master  of  it  ?" 

"Oh,  but  rather!" 

"Dear  me,  how  interesting!"  cried  Mrs.  Tristram. 
"And  you  humbled  them  at  your  feet  ?" 

Newman  was  silent  a  little.    "No,  not  at  all.   They 

538 


THE  AMERICAN 

pretended  not  to  care  —  not  to  be  afraid.  But  I  know 
rhey  did  care  —  they  were  afraid." 

"Are  you  very  sure  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  hard.  "Why,  they  fairly  turned 
blue." 

She  resumed  her  slow  stitches.  "They  defied  you, 
eh  ?" 

"They  took  the  only  tone  they  could.  But  I  did  n't 
think  they  took  it  very  well." 

"  You  tried  by  the  threat  of  exposure  to  make  them 
xome  round  ?"  Mrs.  Tristram  pursued. 

"  Yes,  but  they  would  n't.  I  gave  them  their  choice, 
and  they  chose  to  take  their  chance  of  bluffing  off  the 
charge  and  convicting  me  of  fraud,  that  is  of  having 
procured  and  paid  for  a  forgery.  Forgery  was  of 
course  their  easy  word  —  but  words  did  n't,  and 
don't,  matter.  They're  as  sick  as  a  pair  of  poisoned 
cats  —  and  I  don't  want  any  more  'revenge."1 

"It's  most  provoking,"  she  returned,  "to  hear  you 
talk  of  the  'charge'  when  the  charge  is  burned  up. 
Is  it  quite  consumed  ?"  she  asked,  glancing  at  the 
fire.  He  assured  her  there  was  nothing  left  of  it,  and 
at  this,  dropping  her  embroidery,  she  got  up  and 
came  near  him.  "I  need  n't  tell  you  at  this  hour  how 
I've  felt  for  you.  But  I  like  you  as  you  are,"  she 
said. 

"As  lam  —  ?" 

"As  you  are."  She  stood  before  him  and  put  out 
her  hand  as  for  his  own,  which  he  a  little  blankly  let 
her  take.  "Just  exactly  as  you  are,"  she  repeated. 
With  which,  bending  her  head,  she  raised  his  hand 
and  very  tenderly  and  beautifully  kissed  it.  Then, 

539 


THE  AMERICAN 

"Ah,  poor  Claire!"  she  sighed  as  she  went  back  to 
her  place.  It  drew  from  him,  while  his  flushed  face 
followed  her,  a  strange  inarticulate  sound,  and  this 
made  her  but  say  again:  "Yes,  a  thousand  tines  — 
poor,  poor  Claire!" 


THE   BWD 


